


Vesuvius

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [6]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Agron and Duro seek to add fighting men to their ranks, Agron is the Older Brother of the rebellion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Congratulations Nasir...it's a boy...it's a girl...it's a whole bunch of little monsters!, Duro POV, Duro needs BOTH his brothers, Duro shows off his People Skills (TM), Everyone grieves, Everyone is in agreement… or are they?, Lots of Romans die, Lots of rebels die too (and damnit I REALLY LIKED THESE DUDES), M/M, Nasir POV, Nasir has smart ideas, Nasir receives a long overdue BRO TALK, Spartacus and Nasir could conquer the known world with their wicked scheming, THERE WAS ALWAYS A PLAN FOR THE BATTLE AT VESUVIUS, canon AU, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to The PathRoman forces will come.  It is only a matter of time.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> So begins the sixth fic of the And Prove More Fierce series. (^_^)
> 
> This story picks up the afternoon following the closing scene of "The Path." If you haven't read "The Path," "Fugitives," "The Arena," "The Brotherhood," and/or "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.
> 
> Relevant tags will be added with each chapter -- I don't want to spoiler you. (^_~)
> 
> Also, just to keep track, the (named) canon characters we've lost so far are: Magistrate Titus Calavius (The Arena), Hamilcar (Fugitives), Quintus Lentulus Batiatus (Fugitives), Numerius (Fugitives), Varro (The Path), Pyrrhus (The Path)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (medicinal), SEXYTIMES (go, Nagron!), reference to TORTURE (non-explicit)

“Syrians!”

I was uncertain if Mediucs cursed me or the man who had inflicted the injury upon my arm or both.  I was grateful neither Agron nor Duro stood ready to defend my honor.  I’d sent them away with task of ensuring that Aurelia and Janus received food and comfortable lodgings; I had not wished for either of my Germans to be here, to see this, to allow what Ashur had done to me to sear into their memory as well.  That self-serving fuck was not worthy of remembrance.  Not in manner or deed.

Holding my arm still, I focused on Naevia as she gently bathed Oenomaus’ fevered skin.  I had dozed fitfully as Medicus had treated the Numidian’s wounds as best he was able, but now it would be up to the man to awaken himself.  So many wounds.  Journey through the filth of the cisterns had certainly not aided his health.  My skin and scalp itched at the memory.  Oh, how I longed for a very, very hot bath.

“Fuck,” Medicus muttered, poking at the angry, swollen skin clinging to charred flesh.  “Wound is contaminated and blood will poison if pus is not drained.”

I winced.  “You needn’t provide narration.”

“I am aware.  However, I would dissuade you from procuring another injury of its kind.”

I gawped.  “Yes.  Gratitude.  The next occasion that finds me bound fast and repeatedly branded against my will, your words will provide great fucking comfort.”

Medicus snorted, unimpressed.  “Is that all you endured?”

The snide shit.  Ignoring Naevia’s presence and glaring blankly at Oenomaus, I told him the tale as I knew well this stubborn, skinny man would not relent until he had been given every detail.  Besides, speaking distracted slightly from the sting of blade slicing through screaming flesh and the flow of fluids, the astringent scent of vinegar and its sizzling burn upon raw wound.

The medicus hurled insult and I snarled reply until spoiled flesh had been cut away and stitches sewn.  I allowed myself a brief glimpse of the man’s handiwork before a familiar poultice was slathered on and bandage secured.

I wondered if the new scar would be more or less hideous than the original brand.

“Now get out of my infirmary!” the grouchy fuck barked.  “I have work to attend to.”

Sliding off of the table, I made for the door.

“And keep your German oafs away unless you develop either fever or spoilage of wound.”

I nodded.  “Gratitude, you unpleasant shit.”

I was certain I saw the man’s lips twitch with a smile -- and Naevia bite back a grin -- as I took my leave.  The man was already grumbling about some other complaint before the curtain fell shut behind me.

Somehow, the sight of both my Germans leaning against the wall just beyond infirmary threshold did not surprise me.

“If you were charged with ensuring I did not slay Medicus before treatment was completed, I will accept the presence of both of you here as necessity.”

Duro laughed.

Agron chuckled, shaking his head in that way of his -- as if I were a constant surprise to him -- and assured, “Donar was here as well for a time.  Until your manner frightened him away.”

“Hmm.”  Of course.  I was ferocious.

“And Spartacus would have news of Oenomaus,” Duro warned with a smirk that I shared, amused that the Thracian preferred not to interrupt Medicus and seek information himself.

“Then I shall provide it.”

That task was quickly seen to completion.  I then clasped arms with a grieving Lysandros and Vitus for their fallen brother, Pyrrhus.   _ ** **Apologies,****_  I did not say.   _ ** **I made attempt,****_  I did not assure.  Neither utterance would assuage the loss.  Neither theirs nor Aurelia’s.

I cast gaze over temple portico and yard, but I did not see Varro’s family.  When Aurelia stood ready to receive me within her sight, she would emerge.

Instead, I endured remarks from Euclid, who was as sour-faced as ever.  “You three reek of shit,” he complained, shoving a bowl in my direction.

Ah, our memorable journey through the sewers: a gift that yet gave onward.  It appeared that my time spent in driver’s seat beside Libo had not wind-scrubbed the smell from me.  Luckily, the ruined temple that the rebels now inhabited boasted a bath.  The others from our group had surely made use of it already… with possible exception of Rhaskos.  The sewer may have improved his smell, actually.

Chadara greeted me with a smile that lasted only until the breeze shifted.

I held up a hand, swallowing a mouthful of stew.  “We are for the bath next.”

“And a good thing,” she concurred, very kindly not pinching her nose shut.  “Donar told of your quest.  In great detail.”

“And with fucking Roman chainmail draped over shoulders for trophy!”  Duro rolled his eyes.  “As if the shit had charged into the arena himself and carried both Nasir and Doctore to safety -- one over each shoulder.”

“I’ll throw him over a shoulder,” I grumbled.

Agron grinned.  “That I would gladly witness.”

“You should have heard the dim-witted goat, Agron,” Duro blathered with increasing momentum and fervent gesticulation.  “Crowd gathered ‘round to fawn over his words, swelling tale to his advantage.  Fancies himself a fucking bard.”

I accused: “You envy.”

“Do not.”

“You do.  Greatly,” I drawled obnoxiously.

Duro’s eyes narrowed.  I dodged the lazy sweep of his arm, but he did not deny my claim.  Instead, he glared at Agron.  “Next time, I don Roman armor and you can be splashed with filthy fucking pitch.”

I could still see traces of the substance in his matted hair.  Just as I could see blood and sand beneath Agron’s fingernails.  What they had done was extraordinary.  I could not have anticipated this when I’d sent Pyrrhus and Calius toward Vesuvius, when I had caused distraction at Atella, when I had permitted myself to be captured… not even when I’d found myself in the bowels of the fucking arena.

Extending my elbows, I bumped both of them.  “A man could not ask for better brothers.”

“Ha!” Duro guffawed.  “We are even now.”

Oh?  Fetching me from death in the arena and dragging me through filth stood as payment for taking Roman sword wound on his behalf?

Quirking a brow, I observed: “And yet I am the one who endured kindly attentions of Medicus both times.”

“You are fucking irritating.”

“I know no one by that name, nor am I fucking him.”

Agron choked on a bite, laughing.  Chadara rolled her eyes.

Duro grinned wickedly.  “In ignorance, perhaps,” he teased with a challenging eyebrow wiggle aimed at his older brother.  “East of the Rhine, the name ‘Agron’ means--”

“Close.  Fucking.  Mouth,” my lover growled, struggling to hold onto his scowl even as he pointed a finger in his brother’s face.

Chadara and I shared a look and made no attempt to subdue our snorted giggles.

The temple bath was not quite as stale and unpleasant as that of the ludus, but given the number of people who used it regularly, my expectations could not be reasonably higher.  There were a few strigils and enough oil.  The water was warm.

Bathing with Duro and Agron again was… comforting, like returning home, and well received.  If not for the necessity of keeping my right forearm dry, I likely would have fallen asleep in the water.

Instead, I chuckled as Agron scrubbed his nails through Duro’s hair, insisting that it wasn’t clean enough.

“I fucking know how to--fuck!  Ow!” Duro shrieked, wincing, twisting around to smack his brother away and sending water splashing over the edge of the tub.  “I make attempt to grow hair, you stupid cock!  Cease tearing it from scalp!”

“Stop fucking wiggling.”

Duro growled.  “Bullying fuck.  The tales I could tell Nasir--”

“Not if you are drowned.”

I had missed these two ridiculous shits.  So fucking much.

I gave Duro a one-armed embrace before he managed to make escape while Agron was vigorously washing his own hair.  And then I was alone with my lover and it was my hair and scalp at his mercy… but he was as gentle as ever.  Thorough.  His short nails scraping rows, furrows, and spirals.  The relief of cleanliness was indescribable.

At the sound of restless footsteps in the hall, Agron and I surrendered the bath, claiming fresh cloth from the shelf to preserve our modesty on the way to Agron’s room, shoes in hand.  I had not seen my jacket and trousers since our arrival; I sincerely hoped that meant they sat alongside Agron’s sword belt.

They did.

I was tempted to tease him for using his clout to claim four walls, a curtained doorway, and pallet generously padded with fabric and blankets, but as I took in the oil lamp, cuts of cloth, water basin, pitcher, and small pot of oil, I couldn’t bring myself to make jest of the things I had dreamed of while lying upon stone bench alone in ludus cage.

Him and all of this -- my heart’s desires fulfilled.

Casting my gaze upon Agron, I was charmed to see how nervous he appeared, as if fearing he had made false assumptions in procurement of these things and in daring to place my unwashed coat and trousers among his meager belongings.

I trailed my fingernails down his arm; he met my look with a shudder.  “Gratitude,” I whispered.

His chin quirked in genuine puzzlement, and I realized how very much I had to choose from by way of answer.

I could thank him for the accommodations, but he clearly held the same desires as I.

I could thank him for coming for me in the arena, but of course he would -- I could see that now -- just as I would have fought my way through Rome itself to free him or claim the right to die fighting by his side.

I could thank him for standing guard outside the infirmary, for attending me in temple bath, for--for so very many things.

But, suddenly, I knew exactly what I was most grateful for: “You show much faith in my skill.  In the arena.  You stood by, watched, and waited for opportune moment to reveal presence and strike.”

That could not have been easy.  I could not say that I could have done the same had our positions been reversed.  But he had not thrown his life away for my sake and I was certain he would have wished the same from me.

His breath chopped and stuttered as he exhaled, caressing me closer.  Into his arms.  “The sight of you in battle stole my breath.”

The conflict was there, unmasked, for me to see: his terror and his awe.  I smirked.  “If I can hold my own against three opponents in a match to the death with only a wasted, dull sword in shackled grasp, imagine what other feats I stand capable of.”

His lips parted on a retort that turned into a gust of shock as I shoved at his shoulders, sending him down to his knees upon the pallet.  I reacquainted myself with his lap.  Rocked my hips over his.

He protested weakly: “Your arm…”

“Will not be required in obtaining what I seek,” I assured him, placing a sucking kiss upon his throat.  “Unless you intend to offer resistance.”

His hands were already smoothing down my back to subligaria.  “No, no resistance,” he panted against my ear as I nuzzled and snuffled along his jaw.  “Take your pleasure.”

Yes, finally, I would.  I dragged my teeth through his beard stubble and nipped his ear.  My hands pressed him gently back until he was laid out beneath me.  At barest touch, his hips lifted to aid in removal of his clothing.  He made no demands.  No negotiations.  He simply gave me whatever I requested of him, even absent words.  Ah, fuck.  This man.  I would have him.  Him and no other.

Heated skin prickling in anticipation.  I was forced to pause, gasp, gather scattered senses.  His fingertips brushed against my cheekbones.  Thumbs petted soothingly behind my ears, calming me.

He was my center.  It was unfair.  It was beautiful.  And fuck but I wanted him, this feeling, this freedom, this right to pleasure and life and _****everything.****_

I lunged over him, trapping his cheeks between my palms and surging tongue into his open mouth, a sloppy, commanding, branding kiss.  He groaned, cock hardening and pressing up between my thighs, catching in the weave of my subligaria.

How tempted I was to kiss him indefinitely now that we had a place of our own away from prying eyes to do whatever we liked.  Ah, fuck, yes.  But his sleek length nudging against the crease of my leg was too good, too hot, too much.

I slid from his roving touch with a clinging kiss and swiftly collected necessities.  He watched with heavy-lidded eyes, reclining upon the pallet and awaiting my return, as I placed the pot of oil, cloth, and water pitcher within close reach and then, meeting his gaze, removed my subligaria.

“Ah, fuck,” he breathed, his entire body shuddering with naked interest.  Still holding his gaze with mine, my hands groped over his shins, knees, thighs.  When he shifted to allow me entrance between his long legs, I grabbed him tightly, stilling the movement.  I waited.

He moaned, neck arching and eyelashes fluttering.  “You would have…?”

“I would have you this way,” I breathed, my chest fluttering with pulse and need.  I straddled his thighs.  “If you voice no objections?”

He shook his head, jaw clenched and fingers twitching against the bed.

I reached for the oil.

His hand cupped my wrist.  “My touch is too rough?”

In reply, I held the pot toward him in offering.  His throat moved, muscles rippling visibly in the lamplight as he swallowed.  His eyes darkened, lips parted, tongue darted out to moisten chapped flesh.  I shuffled nearer to straddle his waist and I teased his mouth with a smile.

“Shall I pen invitation?”

“Fuck, no.  I--”

His slippery fingertips slid along sensitive crevasse and I moaned, eyes closing.  “Agron.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, circling and massaging.  “Fuck.”

I nodded, tilting my forehead against his and opening my eyes, staring into him as his touch deepened, mimicking the night I had prepared him for being taken.  He remembered.  Every nuance of that night he had memorized and, not for the first time, I wondered how many lovers this man had taken in his life.

His life before.  In Germania, east of the Rhine.

But this was his life now.  The past was of no concern.  Neither his nor mine.

I bit his lip, pushed into the massage.  “Too slow,” I complained.

“Ah…” he groaned and withdrew before pressing advance with two.

I hissed, spine arching and head thrown back.  By the gods, his touch was unparalleled.

He hesitated, waited for my signal, and I rolled my hips, shivering hard when both fingertips brushed against my pleasure.  His other hand palmed across my chest, fingers catching peaked flesh -- one nipple and then the other.

Slipping my fingers into the pot, I reached between my thighs, caressed his length, coating and measuring him, leaning into his panting breaths as if I could sip up the helpless mewls that escaped his throat.

“Another,” I coaxed, my breath chopped-halved-broken as he promptly obeyed.  I bore down as he pushed deep.  “Ah!  Halt.  There.”

He stilled, chest heaving beneath my thighs as I rocked against his hand.  Voice raspy, words tripping upon snags of lust, he stuttered: “If--if this pains you--”

I shook my head.  Opened my eyes.  “You are the only man I have desired this way.  Allow me a moment and--ah, fu-ck!”

My voice broke as his fingers curled, pressed, robbed me of breath with blinding pleasure.  I groaned, thrust against him.  His free hand moved up my chest; fingertips brushed against my throat and I was undone.  Grasping his wrist, I pulled his hand from between my thighs, angled his throbbing length against my flesh.  “Call halt now or I--”

“Take it,” he choked out, an invitation, an offering, a challenge.

I accepted.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, the feel of him breaching deep--!

The pad of his thumb brushed over my eyelashes and I quickly lifted eyelids, lips parting, nostrils flaring.  He bit his lip, breath hissing fast and hard.  Palms smoothed over my sides and back, not pushing, just touching.  Marveling.  Worshiping.

I pressed my hands against his waist, a silent command for him to stay a moment longer as I twisted my hips.  Breath left him in an explosive rush and I leaned back, relaxing and tilting into--hmm… ooh, yes.

“Agron…” I rasped.

He whined.   _ ** **Whined.****_   Fuck did I love the sound of that.  I wanted to press my lips against his throat as he moaned and begged and--

Digging down, I curled my fingers around the small of his back.  “Rise onto your elbows.”

I could feel in the bunching of the muscles beneath me how he fought the urge to pump and thrust and fuck.  Behind me, his knees spread.  Beside me, his hands clutched the blankets and elbows gouged into the pallet.  Before me, his chest rose, neck arching and head falling back.

Leaning-sliding-slipping over him, I pressed lips to throat as he groaned.  Slowly, so slowly, I rolled my hips, tongue flat against his scruff this time.

“Fuck… Nasir.”

I hummed an agreement, smiling with joy and victory.  Each leisurely undulation savored, augmented by his tiny sounds of pleasure-need-please: “Ah…” Agron shamelessly pleaded and he felt-tasted-smelled-sounded so good.  “Ah--ah--ah-- _ ** **ah!”****_

Yet he made no move to influence my efforts.  The power this man gave me over his body--fuck.  “Would you have more?” I teased, drunk from the way he readily responded to my commands.

He growled, an arm banding low across my hips, and my hands clutched his shoulders, pulling him up.  I shifted lower yet into the cradle of his hips--so fucking deep-hard-fuck--as he rolled onto his knees, sat back and--fucking fuck-fuck- _ ** **fuck!****_

I clutched myself close, pressing our chests together, panting in his ear as his hips rolled up-and-in, up-and-in, up-and-in.  Slow, deep, primal.

Ah, fuck!

“Does this please you?” he panted and I clawed at his shoulders, sucked his earlobe--tongued the shell--arched-twisted-rolled myself open to him.  Open arms, open mouth, open thighs, open-open-open--

The feel of him--this feeling--ah, gods, I’d had no idea it could feel--I could feel--Agron and I could feel so silken-perfect-tugging-pulsing-breathless-embracing-loving…  Ah, Agron, my lover, every fiber of his being -- strength and feeling and purpose -- focused on _****loving me.****_

His hair caught between my fingers.  My teeth pressed into the bulging muscle of his shoulder.  My length smeared musk between our bellies.  I could not get close enough, keep him close enough, have him--

He shuddered.  “Ah--apologies, I’m--I cannot--!”

Before I could push him onto his back and adjust our pace, his hips twitched hard, frantic, jarring my spine and setting my teeth grinding at the force of Agron fucking me to his completion.

I pulled him closer, deeper.  Yes, I would take this as well.  “Give in to me.”

He did.  Hips jerking absent rhythm.  Lips parted absent breath.  Eyes open absent sight.

And then his forehead -- sweaty and overheated -- was pressing against my shoulder.  Hot, humid breaths panting against my collarbone.  Arms flexing around me yet not squeezing-caging-trapping.

“Apologies,” he gusted, wheezing.  “Apologies.  Apologies.”

“Shh,” I hushed him, stroking his hair, closing my eyes to better focus on the slick feel of us yet joined.  Yes.  This was--we were--my choice.  Yes.

I knew the moment he caught his breath and gathered senses; his soft lips, hot breath, and raspy beard began tracing paths over my neck, setting my form to shivering and shuddering.  Gasping.  He laid me down upon the pallet.  I groaned as he slid away-and-out, groaned louder as his hands guided my exhausted thighs over his shoulders and then his mouth was taking in my flesh and my hands clenched in his hair and he moaned-whined-begged wordlessly rocking-encouraging-wanting--oh, fuck.

Slick fingers slid deep once more and hot-wet-tight mouth pulled and, when I looked down the length of my body, his eyes--dark with desire--brows tilted with reverence, palm petting my hip toward his heat, fingertips rubbing within--firm, confident, stretching me out until I lay helpless with glorious sensation and--!

“Ag-ron!”  I gasped-thrust-released.  Released.  Released.   _ ** **Released.****_

Oh.  Oh gods.

 _ ** **Breathe,****_  I reminded myself, making no effort to gather my senses.   _ ** **Breathe.****_  

Whiskery kisses upon chest, neck, cheek.  A nose nudged mine.  I tilted my chin up to receive his kiss.  Musk and salt, slick and wet.  Thick.  I curled my tongue around his, groped over his arms and down his sides.

He drew back to murmur against my chin: “Apologies.  I was--”

“My best,” I insisted, clamping trembling fingers over his swollen lips.  Massaging the nape of his neck, I replaced the hand upon his mouth and kissed him deep and thorough, pressed his forehead to mine.  “Agron.”  I brushed tip of nose against cheek.  “My lover.”

His spent flesh twitched against my thigh and I grinned.  He bit his lip, clearly both amused and thrilled.  If the simple affirmation of me choosing him inspired such response, it was a miracle he’d lasted as long as he had in the first place.

Tilting my head to the side, I heard myself inquire, “How did you find it?  More or less pleasing than other methods?”

His response was a hungry kiss.  While not particularly definitive, it was welcome nonetheless.  I burrowed against him, pulled his arms around me, and wished we would never be given reason to leave this pallet, this room, this sanctuary.

But of course we must; there was much work for idle hands to address.  When I shifted to stand, Agron made sound of protest and I selfishly surrendered to exhaustion.

I woke to Mira’s call from corridor: “Nasir, Agron, do you take evening meal?”

Though I had done little this day to earn it, yes, I supposed I would.  Agron nuzzled and nudged me upright, unwilling to consider my refusal.   _ ** **Tomorrow,****_  I promised myself.   _ ** **Tomorrow, I would earn my share.****_

As I once again accepted a bowl and portion of bread from Euclid, I suddenly realized that not only did I have hands to hold sustenance, but I yet had loving hands to hold me.  I yet had brothers to stand with me: Agron and Duro, of course, but also Donar and Rabanus and Spartacus.

How had I escaped Roman schemes with so much while others had lost all?

My gaze lifted and I drifted.  Meandered.  I searched, threading my way among milling bodies until I found Varro’s widow hunched upon temple steps.  Her son scribbled in the dust with a stick, doted on by a teary-eyed Naevia and a clearly charmed Mira.  The bowl in Aurelia’s tight grasp was empty.  The bowl at her side sat untouched.

Naevia looked up as I hesitantly claimed the seat beside uneaten meal.  Despite the brief flicker of her encouraging smile, I held my tongue.  It was not that I had no words to break; they crashed over me, trite and insignificant:

_****I warned him away from the dice.** ** _

_****He was my friend.** ** _

_****We rose up against Batiatus to protect our loved ones, not to cause them harm.** ** _

_****Whenever Varro spoke of you, I learned more of love.** ** _

_****Would that you and I had not met this way.** ** _

I did not eat.  I watched Janus doodle and Mira clap her hands at his beaming efforts and I waited for the first accusation.

Aurelia said, voice unsteady and raw: “Varro told of your courage -- you saved his life.”

I nearly gasped at the pain, my chest cracking open.  I sat my bowl beside hers, stomach knotting so tightly it seemed to form a ball of solid iron.  Cold and hard and heavy.

I thought of that moment -- Numerius’ gleeful grin and downward-angled thumb -- the moment I had left Tiberius in his dominus’ shadow and Nasir had scratched-clawed-snarled forth, furious and rash and wild, acting absent thought beyond simple denial of injustice.  In that instant, for the first time in years, I had tasted _****life****_  again.

“No,” I answered, squeezing the words up and out of my throat.  “He saved mine.”

She looked to me and I to her.  I had no excuses to offer.  I had only breath and blood and hate for Rome and two hands which I would set to fucking purpose.

I excused myself and marched toward the cache of weapons.  A spear -- too long for me, perhaps it was Rabanus’.  I cared not except for the fact that it was in my grasp and a palus had been erected in the yard and it wore each and every face of the Romans who had tormented Varro.  It wore Glaber’s false sympathy as he promised mercy in exchange for unforgivable betrayal.  It wore Ilithyia’s grimace of disgust as she thrust sword deep into Varro’s mutilated breast, delivering the killing blow.

“If only Spartacus were here to see this himself,” she’d very nearly giggled to her twittering audience.

At some point, the palus gained a pair of swords.  Moved to meet my anger and agony.  Clouds of dust.  Blurred vision.  Snarls, hisses, guttural barks.  All from my own throat.

I blinked, blocked, bolted forward.

Drew blood.

“Nasir!” Agron shouted from a distance and I stopped.  Stared.  Spartacus stood opposite me, bleeding from a deep scratch upon his arm, bleeding from soul.

“Apologies,” I panted.  “I did not save him.”

Spartacus drew a breath and lowered his guard.  “But you did not fail him.”

My gaze fell to the churned sand and I recalled Lucretia’s hovering hand, her steps pausing before me, the utter certainty that I would be chosen -- I would be carved-stabbed-skinned-sacrificed -- and then the shock, the mindless and unforgivable relief, when she pointed to another.

Protest had risen within me.  A mad urge to lunge for the woman’s pale, unguarded throat.

I had made neither sound nor motion.

Why?

_****Why?** ** _

Why had I allowed Glaber’s triumphant stare to pin me to the tiles, docile and cowering?

The answer was as clear as it was cruel.  I turned away before it could unfold and unravel me.

I took to the wall.  First watch.  I could not cast gaze upon Agron or Duro though I felt their watchful eyes.  I could not let them see.

My resolve only further revealed my failings in excruciating detail.

Still, what could I have done to affect a different result?

Glaber had always intended my death to be viewed in the arena, a strike against the rebellion.  Capua would rather cheer for the downfall of an empowered house slave than a condemned man who had once stood free among them.

Nor would my betrayal of Spartacus’ plans and location have spared Varro pain; the Romans would have played with him until boredom intruded.  I had seen evidence of their temperament too often to be convinced otherwise.  My pleas would have caused mere fucking amusement as they congratulated themselves on pain inflicted.

So much pain.  Too much for one man to embrace.

Too much for even a gladiator.

Forced to watch Varro’s slow and agonizing, ignoble death, I had once more been made a slave.

Fucking Romans.  Fuck all of them.  Fuck them to Pluto’s gates and beyond.

A presence beside me upon the wall, familiar in form as well as grief.  An offered bowl.  I took it, careful that our hands did not touch.  I told Spartacus, “I have never been more ashamed.”

“You are not the one who stands at fault,” the Thracian insisted.

Was I not?  I had sent Varro away, pushed him toward his end at Roman hands.  Pushed in good faith and ignorance, but I had pushed nonetheless.

I thought of the emaciated form of a once-proud gladiator, eyes that had once glowed with love for wife and child made dull with resignation, the clench of jaw and straightening of spine just before the guards had hauled him to his feet to prepare him for his role in the evening’s entertainment.  Yes, the Romans had taken his life, but--

“I did not fight.”

“He did not ask it of you.”  Spartacus’ hand rested upon my shoulder.  “You saw his wife and son far from Glaber’s grasp.  If he had been permitted one request, it would so stand.”

“It is not enough.”

“Look to Janus,” my friend and mentor quietly commanded, “and heed your heart: it is everything.”

I stared at the porridge in my bowl.  It had cooled and thickened.  The hot tears that splashed against its surface did not mix, but in the gathering darkness, I could pretend otherwise.  I could pretend that they simply disappeared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Nasir does see Spartacus as one of his mentors, Nasir doesn’t give Spartacus’ advice more weight because of that or because he’s the leader of the growing rebellion. When Spartacus does a Smart Thing, Nasir backs him 100%… but Nasir doesn’t just blindly follow the guy. Maybe because he’s seen Spartacus on the verge of making Bad Decisions (like glancing repeatedly at the knife in Batiatus’ office). Because APMF Spartacus has revealed the depths of his need for revenge to Nasir, Nasir doesn’t trust the guy to be objective all the time. Spartacus is flawed just like anyone else, so Nasir doesn't put him up on a pedestal. You know?
> 
> In the final chapter of “The Path”, Agron didn’t charge out onto the arena sands right away -- he waited for the fire to cause a distraction first before racing to Nasir's side; Nasir assumes this is because Agron knows Nasir wouldn’t want him to take unnecessary risks. HOWEVER, there is a really important reason why Agron kept back during the execution even though it was K I L L I N G him to just stand there and watch and do nothing. I’ve only given some very VERY vague and super subtle hints. But don’t worry! All will be revealed… eventually. (You’ve no doubt realized by now that these guys do not communicate well.)
> 
> Don't hesitate to comment at me! Hearing from you is the BEST part of my day and totally makes the posting and updating hassle worth it. Seriously. (^_^)


	2. Pyres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: reference to torture, SEXYTIMES

Midnight.

The change of guard upon wall.  My replacement arrived, but I made no move yet to take rest.  Spartacus had long since left me to my silence, bearing my grudgingly emptied bowl back to Euclid’s makeshift kitchen.

Two large bodies had almost immediately filled the space on my left and right.  Our arms brushed, but my Germans made no attempt to hold me.  Their warmth and silence were enough.  Too much, nearly.  But I would not send them from my presence.

_****“Show the poor shits mercy.”** ** _

Varro’s words.  He had not allowed me to selfishly seek escape from my Germans then -- upon long-awaited and nerve-wracking return from my first visit to the arena -- and he would not wish for it now.

I sighed, weary and frustrated and furious that I was made to wait for opportunity to take Roman lives.  I ached for it.  My hands felt dry.  I desired blood to wet them.

“Nasir!”

My chin twitched at the soft call, my gaze turning just far enough to bring temple yard into sight.

“We honor Pyrrhus,” Lysandros said.  “Will you join us?”

In reply, I stood from my perch, my muscles sore and stiff.  How many years had I aged since departing for Beneventum?  Since I had made claim to Calius that I fought for freedom of choice?  The burden weighed heavier than anticipated.

My fingers twitched and hands fisted, but I would not grasp Agron or Duro.  These useless fucking hands had lost that right.

It did not matter; my brothers shadowed me to the small bonfire, resumed seats at my side.  Just as Pyrrhus and Calius had followed me -- trusted me -- to lead them to sanctuary.  It was all I could do not to shove Agron and Duro away.

Vitus and Lysandros, Mira and Naevia, Camilla and Euclid and Santos, every house slave from the house of Batiatus: all told of the man’s character during his years of service and growing confidence during the early days of rebellion.  Calius told of the man’s sacrifice.  I told of his courage both upon the road to Capua’s arena and within it: worn, rusted, dull sword in hand, he had faced two murmillos.  Alone.

“His body rises with the embers and ash of the arena,” Duro observed, grinning across the firelight.  “An enviable end.”

_****“Lucky fucks.”** ** _

The image of Duro’s body upon the sands--

Agron’s sightless eyes unchanging in color or feeling--

I stood.  Turned.  Fled.

Another bonfire within the yard -- a larger one -- for Varro.  The Brotherhood had gathered ‘round.  Rabanus looked up, nodded for me to join them.  Rhaskos shifted over to make room.  Their wine cups yet appeared half-full.  For this occasion, Medicus had apparently allowed a few precious amphorae from his stores.

I stopped, hesitating to cross from shadow into firelight.

A hand, soft and cool, upon my arm drew my gaze.

“Aurelia,” I greeted, blinking at her in confusion.  Mira and Naevia hovered patiently nearby, but Aurelia stood absent her son.  “Janus…?”

“Shares a pallet with your friend Chadara.”

My lips curved; I was unsurprised.

“Nasir,” she began, her gaze darting over my shoulder to where I did not doubt my German shadows hovered.

I shifted, drawing her attention and giving her mine.  Neither Agron nor Duro were welcome in this exchange.  “Speak your mind,” I invited genuinely.  “Whatever words you wish to break.”

She drew a shaky breath, tears squeezing past the corner of each eye.  Tears she ignored; her grief was too acute and flesh was made numb in comparison.

I was well versed in the phenomenon.

“Varro told of how you came between him and Spartacus -- and forestalled Batiatus’ command for my husband’s death -- at celebration.  By what reasoning or motivation did you intercede?”

I bowed head, allowed memory to swirl and spin behind closed eyes.  Excruciating torment.  Well deserved.

“I served his father’s house for many years until -- I believed I had been sold to pay Varro’s debts.”  But then, at the sight of him kneeling before titillated party guests, I had realized the futility of it all; Varro had not been saved but enslaved.  Just as I was.  “In vain.  We both stood as playthings for Roman amusement.”  I forced a calming breath.  “My hand moved absent thought -- my intent solely to affect difference.”

My success at that moment only amplified my failure now.

She frowned.  “And yet… you claim he saved your life?”

“He did.”  My fingers curled as if gripping sword pommel.  “I took up blade -- I resisted Roman whim -- for the first time.  My heart awakened and opened to receive purpose.  I am forever grateful to your husband for it.”

Agron stiffened, but I made no apology or explanation.  Yes, Agron had brought forth the warrior in me, had encouraged Nasir’s growing strength and set hands to purpose -- I had not spoken false that first morning spent in his arms -- but it was Varro who had shocked me, jarred me from Tiberius’ grasp and the numbness of living death that was slavery.

She nodded, looking toward the bonfire.  “Then I would ask that you honor him.  Alongside his brothers -- your brothers.”  At that, her gaze flickered toward my Germans.

“Whose company will you keep?”  It was not right that I should be allowed my lover and brother and comrades while her husband was lost.

“Ours,” Mira spoke, Naevia beside her.

I was grateful.  Aurelia smiled and I was grateful for that as well.  When they moved away and my Germans made approach, I gripped Duro’s elbow and spanned the back of Agron’s waist.  I felt rather than heard their sighs of relief.

“Gratitude,” I told them quietly, staring at the dust, “for waiting.”

Agron’s fingers molded against my chin, pulling my gaze to his.  He hunched, meeting me upon level ground.  As always.  “We gladly provide what you require.”

Duro patted the top of my head, obnoxiously patronizing.  “So long as you do not make us suffer overmuch.”

I huffed once with humor, glancing Duro’s way.  “To share in suffering is a brother’s charge?”

“Yes,” he surprised me by answering solemnly.  “A most sacred one.”

Glancing toward Varro’s pyre, I realized that an even larger space had been opened, one that would accommodate the three of us so that we might join the Brotherhood in grief.  Such was our place.

We sat at the bonfire.  Crixus passed us cups and a half-full wine skin.  We drank to Varro.  Stories and jests and memories given voice.  No one asked me to speak, but when solemn silence descended, Duro nudged my arm.  Agron murmured, “Allow us to shoulder weight.”

He spoke truth: it was only right that his brothers know how he had faced his end.  I spoke of his mistreatment, his bravery, and his near-silence under torture.

“Denying those Roman fucks satisfaction,” Acer opined.

Agron shook his head.  “Idiotic fuck.”

Spartacus interrupted Acer’s oncoming, affronted retort: “Varro’s wife and son yet remained within those walls.”

Another silence rippled over the gathering: would any man wish for his loved ones to carry the memory of his screams and agonized moans?  No.  Varro had given Aurelia and Janus the gift of silence; his wife and son remembered him as he had lived, not as he had died.

“Varro met death,” Crixus summarized, “with strength to hold to fucking sense.  His loss is felt and will be avenged.”

We all raised our cups to that.

The wine was exhausted before the embers burned down, but we did not retire to bed.  Long after water filled our cups, the Brotherhood remained.  Remembered.  When Spartacus announced his intent to patrol the borders, Rabanus cleared his throat and told of how Varro’s body had been displayed.

My stomach lurched and my jaw clenched as I fought the urge to scream, to lash out with fists, to bury my face in Agron’s chest.  He did not resist inclination to press his against my shoulder.  I pulled him closer and pressed against the subtle shudders of his rage and fear so that he could feel my own.

“The Romans will be made to regret,” Fortis vowed, repeating Crixus’ sentiments.

“We will need more fighting men,” Litaviccus pointed out.

My lover leaned away.  “We will get them,” Agron promised, chin now resting against my temple.  I imagined him glaring into the flames, willing them to burn eternally, unstoppably, until even the memory of Rome turned to ash.

I smiled, closed my eyes, imagined it…

And woke with the dawn, warmed by long, familiar arms caging me between broad chests.  Agron’s bicep beneath my cheek and his hand upon my hip.  Duro’s proprietary grasp on my shoulder and his chest pressed insistently against my back.  His face pillowed on my tangled hair, holding me in place.  I lay awake as light filled the sky, content and safe despite the hard earth beneath me, Duro’s overwhelming nearness, and Agron’s stale breath washing over my face.

Agron woke with a restless shifting of spine and fluttering of lashes.  He smiled upon seeing me, lifting his free hand to stroke my cheek.  I desired a shave -- regardless of Marius’ preference for all his male slaves to be close-shaven, I’d never enjoyed the feel of thick stubble pushing through my skin.  But when Agron idly dragged his nails against it, I found myself considering its possible merits.

And then the arm beneath my head flexed and Agron lifted head to scowl past my shoulder at his brother.  Duro woke with a squawk, flopping onto his back at Agron’s abrupt shove.

“Goatfuck!” he sputtered.  “What--!”

I slid a hand between Agron’s bare thighs and sat up, grinning at Duro.  “Apologies.  Your brother is clearly embarrassed at not being able to warm my back as well as front.”

Duro rolled his eyes, cheeks reddening.  “Fucking cunt.”

Whether it was intended as a simple insult, a reminder of Duro’s preferences, or a comparison to last night’s arrangement -- which would make me the cock, I supposed -- Duro did not elaborate.  He rolled to his feet and sought more pleasant company.

Turning back to Agron, I teased the bravado from his features by curling my fingers tighter around his warm skin and thumbing the sparse, coarse hair of his thigh.  I tilted an eyebrow in gentle chastisement.  I recalled, “We have slumbered in similar manner upon occasion.”  Though Duro had never ended up practically on top of me before.

Perhaps it was this fact that caused Agron’s jaw to clench.  “As three brothers.”

Mindful of the soft sounds of early risers, I whispered: “We three yet stand as brothers.  Should you one day no longer desire to share your bed with me, I would hope that we might remain--”

Agron leaned up and bit my lip.  Hard.  I jerked and he promptly pressed a soft kiss upon stinging flesh.  “No,” he replied simply.  “Banish fucking thought.  Burn it to ash and cast what remains to the winds -- may it scatter in all four directions to the edge of the world and over it.”  His fingers tugged at the tangles in my dusty hair.  He drew himself closer.  “I share far more than my bed with you.”

I knew this.  I truly did.  Smiling, I lowered my forehead to his.  “We have been absent each other’s company many nights in recent days.”  Due to Glaber’s troops, Numerius, my fever, Agron’s return to Capua, my journey to Beneventum, and my recent capture.  I would not begrudge Agron his need to have me close.  My need matched his in that manner.  And yet…

I thought of Varro and Pyrrhus.  Hamilcar.  The other men we had lost at the ludus -- men I had not been given the chance to know.

Massaging the back of Agron’s neck, I reminded him: “Your brother yet lives.  Do not allow such good fortune to fall from thoughts.”

He sighed.  “Gratitude, Nasir.”  Leaning away far enough to allow our gazes to meet, he earnestly spoke: “You saved his life.”  A hand hovered over my scar.  “At great cost.”

“And with no regret.”  The strength of my assertion was no surprise to me -- there was little I wouldn’t do to prevent the separation of these two brothers -- but Agron blinked.  His brows twitched with a moment of sorrow as he likely remembered the loss of my own brother, and then a soft smile curled his lips.

“Fuck the gods.  I now owe that little shit apologies.”

I grinned at the blatant lack of growl in his light tone.  “See it done.”

He did.  After rinsing mouths and faces with cold water and shaking the dirt from our hair, Agron sought Duro as he waited in line for morning meal, grabbed his shoulder, and broke words.  Though I did not understand much of the language spoken east of the Rhine, neither man lowered voice nor schooled expressions.  I watched from a distance, combing my fingers through my tangled hair in an attempt to tame the mass, and I let out a long breath as Duro accepted his brother’s apology.  They laughed.  Slapped each other’s shoulders.  Forgave.

Would that my brother and I had grown to manhood together.

I turned my face away.  As I scanned the yard, my eyes slowly focused upon the present and I took note of many faces that I had not seen at Reginus’ villa.

“Spartacus has gained more followers?” I asked when Agron joined me on the temple steps, pressing morning’s portion into my grasp.

“Shepherds and herdsmen,” he explained.  “They joined us as we moved south and rounded Vesuvius.”

“Fortunately for us,” Spartacus added, speaking up from behind.  “The knowledge they hold of these lands is beyond price.”

I nodded.  For all my knowledge of Capua and the roads leading south, I knew little of the landscape.

“I would break words,” Agron began before Spartacus could be called away, “towards our plans for Neapolis.”

Yes, our plans to increase our numbers and make Glaber fucking _****bleed.****_

Spartacus nodded.  “Let us see to it presently.”

I watched the Thracian join the meal line, my eyes squinting in thought.

Agron ducked into my line of sight to draw my gaze.  “That look bodes ill for my peace of mind.”

I supposed it did, but I was not swayed.  “How many among our number have visited Neapolis and know its streets?”

He frowned.  “Surely some.  From the villas.”

My lips quirked.  “That you trust?”

His lips tightened.

Ah, as I’d thought.  “I have,” I told him.  “I accompanied Marius on business to many cities -- Nola, Pompeii, Picentia, and Neapolis.”

Agron glanced at my side and the exposed scar and then his gaze fell upon my bandaged right forearm.  To his credit, he did not voice concerns for my health.  Instead, he said, “To stand side by side with you in moving against our enemies -- it has been a fucking long time in coming.”

“You forget the arena already?”

He leaned in, capturing my gaze.  My heart sped as his lips parted and he spoke with earnest devotion, “I would have you unshackled.  Unleashed.  And fucking glorious.”  A crooked smile stretched his lips wide.  “As you were in Atella.  Or so I heard.”

“Hm.”  I did not deny it.

His chin tilted slowly, his gaze softening with pride and wonder.  “Should a second opportunity present itself, I would bear witness to that man -- courage unmatched and skills of much fucking worth.”

I grinned and my teeth felt sharp enough to cut the very air we breathed.  “I would have you repeat sentiment following discussion regarding Neapolis.”

Later that afternoon, to the soft sound of misting rain, my challenge was issued and absorbed with wide-eyed stares.

“You would--fucking--what?” Duro sputtered into the weighted silence.  My recommendations had shocked more than just Duro.  Agron and Crixus were gaping at me in disbelief.  Mira and Lucius, a Roman of the Caelian Clan with whom I had exchanged only perfunctory introductions, seemed content to await our leader’s verdict.  Spartacus -- the man I kept my gaze trained upon -- merely watched me with a considering look.

I insisted, “It will gain us more fighting men than a single ship alone would yield.”

Crixus crossed his arms.  “Yet make time for preparation short.”

I bared my teeth in frustration.  “How long do you think Glaber will sit with arm up ass in Capua?  His scouts will find us.  Or the thieves and hunters who frequent these woods will trade whispers for coin.  The Romans will come.”  The only thing to be decided was on whose terms that confrontation would occur.

“The little man has a point.”

I spun about, glowering at Gannicus.

“Don’t fucking call him that,” Duro warned amicably, “unless you hold desire to have your balls served to you.”

The Celt smirked.  “The Romans will find this place -- even the most witless among them may be blessed by Fortuna, but I would have my tongue wet with wine when that happens.”  He arched a brow expectantly.

“We have naught but water to offer,” Spartacus replied evenly.

Gannicus sighed, blinked, gazed blankly at the map.  “A miserable end you’re courting.”  He looked to Crixus with bare disappointment before turning on his heel and retreating into temple’s interior, either to hold vigil at Oenomaus’ side, seek slumber, or indulge in a fuck.  Dismissing him from immediate concern, I bumped Duro’s arm in acknowledgement of his words on my behalf.

I then returned attention to Spartacus.

I waited.

Agron spoke concern first: “If you have visited the city before, there stands a chance you will be recognized in its streets.”

I huffed out a laugh.  “Doubtful.  My appearance has changed much.”  And I had no intention of making effort to resemble a well-maintained body slave.

Again, silence fell.  A long moment into it, Duro punched Agron in the shoulder, prompting him with brows quirked, but Agron pointedly ignored him.

Spartacus cleared his throat.  “I hope for Agron and Duro’s sake your confidence is not misplaced.”

Meeting his gaze with level calm, I replied, “I commit to purpose known to all; I make no rash attempt to exact revenge upon a Roman praetor.”

Everyone stiffened with the exception of the impoverished Lucius, who had no knowledge of the event, and Spartacus, who merely smiled.  “You claim your judgment clear?”

“Not at all, but I will sooner fail fucking mission than risk the life of a brother.”

Spartacus’ gaze lowered to the map.  He nodded.  “Agron?”

His resolute gaze never failed to pebble the flesh upon my arms.  “Nasir, Duro, and I will see it done.”

Though clearly unhappy, Duro nodded once, teeth gritted.

Spartacus accepted our commitment to purpose: “Assemble whatever and whoever you require.  When do you depart?”

Agron’s jaw jutted forward, lips pursing.  “Once roads allow.  On the morrow or day after.”

With that, the meeting disbanded.  I waited until I stood alone with Duro and Agron.  When neither spoke of the unvoiced disagreement simmering between them, I challenged: “And how shall we fill the time until then?”

Agron tilted his head toward the yard.  “When did you last train?”

Duro clapped me on the shoulder, his frustration with Agron cheerfully pushed aside.  “Humor us.  The scum of Neapolis will yet be swimming in the dregs for another day.”

As that stood true, I relented.  “Very well.”  Smirking, I poked Agron in the belly.  “Prepare yourself.”

We sparred in the intermittent, misty rain under the curious gazes of those who took shelter beneath the unfinished temple roof.  Duro, Agron, and I were mud-splattered by the time the aroma of the evening meal overwhelmed the dusty scent of damp earth.

We bathed quickly.

Duro elected to take his portion of stew and bread and sit with Chadara and Aurelia.

That Chadara still attended Varro’s widow did not surprise me.  She’d always had a talent for discerning the standing of those around her and insinuating herself into the good graces of powerful allies.

What I had not anticipated was Donar’s slouch-shouldered, crouching form as he mock-battled with Janus, kindling stick to kindling stick, while Chadara alternately giggled and called out challenging jeers to the former gladiator; she gave Donar no quarter while cheering on Janus and I marveled at how readily she spoke her mind to the former gladiator.

Duro seemed not to notice the byplay.  He spoke with Aurelia, shoulders rounded in deference.

Well, whatever unfolded between those four would occur absent my observation or intervention.  It was, after all, only one meal.

“What duties are you charged with this evening?” I inquired of Agron, rubbing knee against his thigh.

He sent me a sidelong look.  Heated and knowing.  “Selection of cart and volunteers for journey to Neapolis.”

“Would assistance enable tasks to be completed with speed?”

His brows arched playfully.  “Is there some charge you would have me attend thereafter?”

There was.

“Ah… fuck, Nasir.”

The distant sound of rain and footsteps as everyone settled down for the night beneath temple roof created a soft murmur that I had hoped would conceal the sounds of our desire.  I was now questioning the assumption that Agron would be no louder than he had in the ludus.  The walls of our small room seemed to amplify every breath and grunt and groan.

Leaning over his prone form, I blanketed his ass and back, scraping the edge of teeth over tensed muscles.  “Hush,” I hissed before licking the valley along his spine.  “Unless you would have the entire camp bear witness.”

“To your cock within me?” he muttered on a helpless roll of breath caught between a moan and a laugh and -- gods save me, he might actually be relishing the thought of others holding such knowledge -- I bit my lip hard enough to shock sense back into myself… until he rocked his hips up, caressing my cock with his inner heat, at which point he purred: “You can name a greater cause?”

His spine bowed and I surged forward, the time for adjustment clearly past.  He gasped, froze, pressed against me as I rubbed him deep, massaging tender flesh in a manner that pleased him to the point of words readily abandoned.  Senses scattered.  His fingers curling, clawing, twitching against the tangled bedclothes.

I slid both oiled hands down his sides and slotted my fingers into his strong hips, rocking forward as I tugged him up to receive shallow thrusts, accommodating preferred angle.  The muscles in his back rippled and I had to admit I was tempted to brag of this: the effect my touch had upon this intimidating man.

“Flattering,” I agreed with reservation, “but I would have my eyes alone behold you thus.”

His fists twisted in the blankets even as his pelvis canted and knees spread wider yet, inviting me closer, deeper, hotter.  I pressed my smile against his skin, so fucking overcome with joy that I couldn’t even force my jaw to unclench.  My hands groped up over his shoulders and down his long arms, fingers burrowing in the crook of each elbow, gaining leverage for harder thrusts.

He turned his chin a bit more to meet my gaze over his shoulder -- the flash of teeth in a satisfied grin -- and a single heavy-lidded eye that tracked my panting breaths.  The swift pass of pink tongue over parched lips--ah fuck.

“Do not attempt to rush me,” I warned him.

He bit back a groan.  “Rush what?  Is this what you call fucking, little man?”

I shuddered with equal parts revulsion and reverence.  “Fucking?  No, Agron.  You are no Roman.”

“Ah, fuck.  Apologies.”

I trailed kisses across his back.  “Shh, and allow me,” I mouthed.  “Let us enjoy each other at our leisure.”

And on our own terms.

Our hips rolled in lazy motions until Agron’s chest heaved with breaths and he rocked his forehead against the pallet, exhaling desperate whines.  Looping my arms around his waist, I sat back, moved with sharper purpose as I gripped his hard flesh and begged him to release: “Into my hands.  Let me feel you.”

He did.

My scream was made silent by lack of breath at the feel of him shuddering and clenching, taking and drawing me in--ah, fuck.  I bit at his scars as I resisted the need to shove him flat and fuck him senseless.

I waited him out: steadily urged him through completion, savoring each moment of his surrender until he went slack in my grasp.  Then I guided him onto his side, lifted one passion-spent and trembling leg over my shoulder, pulled back, slicked my length with his captured seed, and met his delirious gaze as I re-entered, smooth and swift.  The pace unforgiving.

I groaned softly as his spine arched and his hands invited me closer-closer-closer on a whisper of touch.  His head fell back and he gave himself to sensation as his softened cock twitched and jaw loosened and this man _****allowed****_  me--he allowed _****me****_ \--to push him beyond the simple pleasure of his first climax and onto a plateau of rippling desire as his body convulsed helplessly, caught at the edge of too-much-not-enough.

Ah, Agron!

I covered the scar upon his chest, looked up into his eyes, and let myself go, following the momentum and rhythm and I was at the mercy of it as much as he was.  My mind emptied and my heart burst and my vision exploded with white light as my cock filled him deep-deep-deep and my being pulsed-pulsed-pulsed!

Fuck.  Oh, fuck.

Many minutes passed before I gathered enough sense and strength to free myself from his seed-slicked heat.  As I eased his knee from my shoulder and his foot slid across the tangled blankets, he gasped: “Ah, fuck.  Fuck me--or not-fuck me--whenever you like.  Fuck.”

Weary laughter escaped me on a puff of breath.  “Words you may come to regret,” I warned, blindly grabbing for a cut of cloth.

His grin was hungry and sharp.  “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, we do not know what Nasir’s plan is for Neapolis (except that they’ll end up with more fighting men than one ship would hold). I’m going to reel this out very slowly and SHOW rather than TELL what the plan is. (^_~)
> 
> EDIT: A wonderful observation by FuckinGauls reminded me of a detail I neglected to cite. The part where Nasir learns that shepherds and herdsmen have joined Spartacus' following is drawn from speculation (or historical reference... I'm not sure which) that Spartacus had such a great "home court" advantage on Mount Vesuvius because of all the shepherds and herdsmen (who were slaves) from the nearby lands that abandoned their posts to take up with this gaggle of escaped gladiators and share their knowledge of the landscape.


	3. Whorehouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: reference to sexual slavery/servitude (the chapter title should be a pretty good indicator)
> 
> Music rec: "Heaven or Hell" by Digital Daggers

Neapolis.

It smelled no better for the recent rain.  We had waited until mid afternoon to take to path; the roads had been sufficiently dry by then and despite the occasional patch of mud, the cart wheels had not gotten stuck.  It was nearly dusk when Lydon pulled the wagon into a public stable.

Adopting the disagreeable persona of a slaver, I snarled at the slave who came to take the horses, sneered at the stable master who came out to demand coin, and spat at my men: “We depart once my business is complete.  Any man who keeps me waiting will forfeit a week’s wages!”

Lydon and Lysandros immediately began their reconnaissance of the streets.  Rhaskos and Vitus swaggered toward the harbor.  I gestured impatiently for my “guards,” Duro and Agron, to follow at my heels.

The city had changed little since my last visit: a grubby, stagnant, sea-salted shithole.  Despite the rain, the sour reek of stale wine, vomit, and piss easily led us to the establishment we sought.  I fought the urge to grimace upon sight of the ramshackle whorehouse.  My heart was pounding, my palms sweating -- I had no notion of what we would find inside these walls, but I doubted it would be pleasant.

The only reason I was aware of this place was because Marius had made a point of sampling the whores in every city he visited.  It had once been my charge to inquire of all available proprietors and judge which would be suitable.  This one had been summarily dismissed due to its dingy atmosphere and clientele of dubious refinement.  It was those exact clientele that now brought us to its door.

The stink of unwashed bodies, sex, and filth slammed into me the moment feet crossed threshold.  It took every dram of my hard-earned poise to maintain my disinterested expression and keep moving forward.  Behind me, I heard Duro’s soft gag forcibly molded into a cough.

As the owner looked up from tending a group of rough-looking men, I turned impatiently to Duro and gestured grandly and with clear mockery for him to select a seat among the smattering of other customers.  “Yes, yes, wine awaits, you drunken fuck.  But!  Drink yourself witless and I shall leave your hide in this fucking city!”

Duro nodded his understanding, already moving to call for a jug.  I, on the other hand, had other interests.  I surveyed the room from grubby corner to grubby corner, gaze skipping over the whores braced and bent over tables to receive customers’ cock, and absently evaluated the girls and boys who stood available.  Most made no effort whatsoever to secure their threadbare clothing, advertising their qualities with practiced smiles.

I purposefully set my gaze to linger on a few and the proprietor was quick to approach after snatching up the coin Duro laid down and setting a jug of wine in its place.  The man gestured toward his shop’s “wares” with pride.

“An excellent selection,” he insisted with a grin.  “What’s your preference, sir?”

“Hmm.  Quite the variety, yes,” I agreed drolly.  “In such high demand as well.”

The fleshmonger’s thin patience rippled.  His grin returned, even more forced than before.  “You are fortunate -- when the harbor stands full, so too the cunt and ass.”

Choosing a whore was a simple matter of noting who flinched, not in body but in mind.  Unpleasant memory rushing to the forefront of thoughts: eyes losing focus and mouth tightening.

“You!”  I gestured to my selection, scooping from pouch enough coins to cover the cost of the whore and wine.

There were private rooms of course -- for a price -- but retiring to one of those, while making my task easier, would not allow Agron to keep a line of sight on Duro.  In a place like this, I would not leave my brother unattended.

I chose a curtained table meant to accommodate a group of four revelers, or two customers and a pair of whores, or some other combination of four writhing bodies.  The boy I’d selected came at my call, sweet and submissive.  He’d even bathed recently.

Leaving the tattered, stained curtain open, I leaned against table’s edge and gestured the whore to sit.  His hands immediately went to my thighs, lightly massaging muscle through the grimy fabric of stolen slaver’s trousers.

I gave the boy a sly smile as I combed my fingers through his soft, tousled hair.  Though pale brown in color, the curls reminded me of Varro and Janus.  My stomach lurched unpleasantly, but my smile remained fixed.  I was charged with task to perform.  I would see it done.

A jug of undoubtedly over-watered wine was delivered along with two cups; I ignored the proprietor, not taking my eyes off of the boy seated between my knees.  “Draw the curtain,” I demanded at the man’s retreating back even as I was reaching for the boy’s chin and feathering my thumb over his lips.  His mouth opened, tongue lapping at the pad before his lips closed around it.

The curtain was irritably whisked shut.

“Deeper, boy,” I instructed and he readily complied.  “Hmm.  Harder.”

Three footsteps sounded beyond the curtain: _**left-right-left.**_  Agron, who stood watch, was shifting his weight -- the signal that I had been waiting for.  I was now free to begin questioning the whore.

“Stand.”

When he did, I drew my thumb from between his lips and placed my hands on his waist, guiding him closer so that our hips pressed together.

I leaned forward and inhaled the scented oil on his neck.  It would undoubtedly fade quickly as the night wore on and sweaty activities took their toll.  Yet, as appealing as he smelled, my foremost thought was for the wrongness of the moment: the body in my embrace was not tall enough, not hard enough, not musky enough, not… Agron.

“You dread ships anchored in harbor,” I observed factually, keeping my words to a quiet hum.

He shuddered.

I pressed my cheek against his throat -- his pulse was beating fast.  “I would know the cause.”

He hesitated.

I reminded him: “You would not wish to see customer dissatisfied, would you?”

He shook his head and whispered in my ear of the sailors’ stench and their rough treatment of whichever unfortunate whores chosen to attend them.  “They fuck as if starved for flesh,” he murmured, shivering.

I pitied this boy -- so easily I could have been standing beside him as a fellow whore -- but I was not here to save him.  Not yet.  At present, I had no choice but to focus on obtaining required information, so I pressed on, taking his hands gently in mine and placing his palms upon my chest.  “Slavers who anchor in port are not so rude, then?”

He shook his head.  “They are the worst.  Especially those who bring men captured in war.”

As Agron and Duro had been.  “Such flesh is not to their liking?”

“Such men and women are rancid, they say.”

And so the slavers make up for lost opportunity by fucking whores raw.  The mistreatment infuriated me, but I spoke calmly: “When do slavers such as these next drop anchor?”  Surely this boy would know.  It was likely everyone in the establishment knew; the fleshmonger would keep track of the shipping schedule for the sake of profit while the whores would count the days until the next onslaught.

His eyes squeezed shut and his fingers tightened upon my coat.  “A ship from Germania arrives in a fortnight.  One from Gallia three days after.  And another from Damascus the same day or in its wake.”

“Will you--”

“Halt!” Agron snarled and I wasted no time pushing the boy against the table, moving to crowd his pliant form from behind.  Agron spoke reminder: “My employer commanded no disruption.”

“Fill our cups, boy,” I whispered into his ear and he giggled loudly for the benefit of his master, leaning forward and sloshing wine noisily as he complied.

There was a half-hearted grumble before Agron’s bristling countenance sent the proprietor away.

The boy lowered his voice and warned, “You must fuck me soon or he will demand additional coin.”

Stepping back, I nudged him around to face me.  “I seek not flesh but words.”

The boy seemed unsurprised by this revelation, but why would he?  My manner thus far had belied that of a man whose cock itched for a fuck.  His lack of confusion, however, drew an inquiry from me: “Do many customers prefer conversation?”

He shrugged absently, reaching out to idly loosen my trousers.  “They often prefer to fuck first and present questions afterwards.  In order to ensure gaining money’s worth.”

Of course.  But as I had told Spartacus, I would rather fail mission than risk a brother.  I would not injure Agron in such a manner.  Still, some pretense would be necessary so that our visit was not made too memorable.  I asked the boy bluntly, “Do you service customers with your mouth?”

“I do.”

“Then let your master cast eyes upon that.  My man will warn us of his approach.”  Facing the curtain, I lifted myself onto the table.  My trousers had already been skillfully undone by quick fingers and the fabric now gaped open.  The boy braced himself over my lap and I threaded my fingers into his hair again.  He glanced down at my bared cock and scowled.

“I do not please you?” he queried, puzzled by my lack of physical interest.

I smiled wryly.  “You bring to mind the young boy of a dear friend.  I could not hold such thoughts for that child.”

“I am no child.”

“I speak only of a remarkable resemblance,” I assured him, amused by his bruised pride.  I reached for a cup of wine, dropped several coins into the liquid and held it out to him.  “Tell me the names of these mannerless slavers who bring ships of captured warriors into port and how I would know them on sight.”

Pleased with the bribe -- and, perhaps, amused by the pretense of our interlude -- he shared knowledge eagerly.  He even grew brave enough to see his own curiosity satisfied: “For what purpose do you not make such inquiries at the harbor?”

“Perhaps you’ve not heard most recent news of the arena in Capua?”

“Burnt to the ground by--ah.”

“Yes,” I quickly spoke.  I had been told of the punishment for speaking Spartacus’ name aloud.  It very well might be the same here.  “With the ludi of both Batiatus and Solonius no longer seeking gladiators to train, the demand for fighting men is low this side of Vesuvius.  I represent a man who would strike a bargain for such slaves, and I would not have the harbor master provide warning of business opportunity lest the price increase.”

The boy’s gaze flickered over me, from my stringy hair to my unkempt scruff to my travel-worn clothing.  Though I had taken care to disguise myself as a slaver, I knew my gentle manner betrayed me.  Now more than ever.  For one thing, a slaver would not have bothered to ask a whore of such an establishment about services provided; a slaver would merely shove cock in mouth, fuck whore’s throat, and ask questions as the boy struggled to swallow and breathe around spurted seed.

Clearly, I was no typical slaver.

The boy opened his mouth, perhaps to express this very observation--

“Fuck yourself back to the kitchen!” Agron nearly shouted and I had just enough time to grab the boy’s head and press his face between my thighs.

“More time requires more coin!” the fleshmonger snarled.

The curtain was flung aside just as I rolled my hips and opened my eyes to glare at the man.  I groped for the required coin and tossed it at his chest.

“Fuck off,” I rasped before returning my attention to the face I was supposedly fucking.

He hesitated a moment, not looking away from the bobbing head in my lap, before Agron’s grasp pulled the man back into the main room.

The curtain fell closed and I waited for the _**left-right-left**_  of Agron’s large feet to sound before I eased the boy back.  “Apologies,” I breathed.

He grinned widely.  “For more amusement than I’ve had since coming to this shithole?”

I supposed he was enjoying himself.  The wine might have pinkened his cheeks, but there was a definite sparkle in his eyes.  Unfortunately, his lips did not appear stretched or bruised.  That would reveal our deception.

I urged him to drink more wine -- he had yet to finish the cup and collect the coins at the bottom -- and then I pulled the boy close.  He frowned in confusion before I gently tapped his lips.  “And do you have some scheme in mind for addressing this oversight?”

The apprehension in his eyes had me resignedly leaning forward.  I saw nothing for it: I would have to nibble and bite his lips.  I hesitated long enough to send silent apologies to Agron, glancing to where he stood on opposite side of curtain, but the feel of lips rubbing vigorously against my unshaven cheek gave me pause.  I smiled.  Ah, yes.  This stood a much more satisfactory solution.

When the whore leaned back a short time later, I nodded approvingly at the effect.  His mouth appeared very well-used now.  And, as I had the information I’d come for, it was time to leave.  I affected a loud, long groan as if I had just finished in the boy’s mouth.  I panted heavily.  We drank more wine.  The boy placed the coins beneath his tongue and I sent him on his way with a promise to occupy his master’s attention while he hid them.  I knew he must have a secret place for keepsakes and coin.  All slaves did.

Distracting the fleshmonger was easily accomplished: I emerged with fanfare, flinging curtain aside and moving with joints supposedly loosened by wine and fucking.  Sensing my agreeable mood, and no doubt hoping to further loosen my purse strings, the man listened attentively as I made request: perhaps he had recently seen a friend of mine--

“Well, not a friend,” I amended, waving my arm about and sloshing the bit of wine yet in the jug.  “Business, you understand.”

“Does this man have a name?”

I gave the one of the slaver from Damascus.

“He’s not due for another eighteen days,” the man informed, “maybe more, perhaps less.”

“That fuck,” I spat.  Took a long drink.  Swayed drunkenly on my feet.  Leaning in, I loudly whispered, “Say nothing of my visit and I’ll wait for him to drop coin here before I, ah, have words.”

“Consider it done.  Is there anything else you require this evening, sir?”

I rambled on a bit about this and that and by the time the boy returned to the room to resume his duties and await his next customer, I’d made a sufficiently obnoxious ass of myself.  The proprietor was more than happy to send me on my way.

Duro swallowed the remainder of his wine, slammed his cup down with a forlorn sigh, and gained feet.  Despite the show of finishing off the jug he’d ordered, his cheeks were not flushed and his eyes were clear.  Perhaps he’d shared cup with a whore rather than engaged the fleshmonger or other customers in idle conversation.  I was eager to hear his report but held tongue.  Once we had all assembled and put the city to our backs, then--

Agron’s fingers curled around my upper arm, guiding me into a quiet alley.  I stumbled, startled by the abrupt change of course, before digging in my heels and twisting to a halt.

My lover loomed in the shadows; I could hear his scowl as it shaped the words: “The boy touched you.  In what manner?”

My brows rose.  I had adamantly refused to be left behind at temple, but I knew I could not pass for a bodyguard on the street; neither Lysandros nor Vitus appeared rough enough to be a convincing slaver and both Rhaskos and Lydon lacked the subtleties for whispered interrogation, hence I had claimed duty of questioning a whore.  Agron had not appeared particularly pleased, but he had raised no objection.  His silent show of trust had warmed me.  Therefore, this territorial display was an unwelcome shock.

I retorted, “Where he was required to.”

Agron’s shoulders stiffened.  He continued to block my path.  I glimpsed a hand upon his arm -- Duro’s -- but Agron brusquely shrugged it off.

Yes, perhaps it was best to discuss this now rather than endure the long journey back to Vesuvius in stony silence.

I chided, “You stand jealous of a boy who provided information in aid of--”

“Would you not stand so in my place?”

Oh.  Well.  I supposed I would.  I sighed.  “We enacted a farce of him servicing my cock with mouth.”

“His mouth was well used,” Agron noted tersely.

I lifted hand and rubbed knuckles upon my own harsh stubble.  “Against my cheek.  Effect is same, is it not?”

A hand covered mine and a thumb brushed back and forth over the thick scruff.

“But,” I warned, “I would have put his mouth to use rather than raise suspicion that may have endangered lives.”  The fingers against my skin tensed.  I grabbed Agron’s wrist and held him in place.  “Your trust enabled me to ensure safety of all.”

Agron huffed and I relaxed.  I knew well this sound and anticipated more rational words from his lips.  He did not disappoint: “If the boy had emerged unaffected, questions would arise.”

And complications swiftly following.

I nodded.  His fingers combed through my loosened hair, gathering the mass away from my brow and cheeks.

“You were never from my thoughts,” I breathed, tilting my face up and arching my spine.  His lips descended and, in the gloom, missed my mouth.  He nibbled down to my upper lip, then pressed a soft kiss to my jaw and nuzzled up.  A sharp nip upon lower lip.  A quick surge of tongue.  Heat exploded over my skin.

I angled my chin to allow the kiss to deepen, my hands reaching for his face in the darkness--

Duro cleared his throat.

Ah, yes.  Right.  The longer we lingered, the more attention we risked drawing.  I regretfully slid from Agron’s loose grasp.

We returned to the stables and retired to the cluttered loft above the stalls to await the return of the others.

The three of us slumped against the warped wall and silence barely had opportunity to settle before Duro released an explosive sigh.

“You are a fucking moron,” Duro accused his brother.  Before Agron could do more than swell with indignation, Duro gritted out, “It was clear to all that Nasir would receive attentions from a whore.  In accordance with fucking plan.”

“And I did not snap the little fuck’s neck.  What more would you have of me?”

I scrubbed both hands over my face, smothering an exasperated breath.

Duro threw his hands into the air.  “Does Neapolis stand as _****our****_  charge or not?” he demanded.

“It does.”

“So we must _****all****_  be in agreement on it.”

Agron glared, mouth tight.

Duro was not cowed.  He stuck a finger in his brother’s face and hissed, “No.  Do not dare to--I will not suffer your stubborn fucking silence!”

Yet Agron broke no words.  The air thickened around us.  The fine hair upon forearms stood on end as if anticipating lightning’s strike.

Shaking his head, Duro turned to me.  “You do realize that this dim-witted idiot lives in fear of you setting foot to path again?”

“What?” I bleated.

“Close.  Fucking.  Mouth,” Agron rumbled, low and dangerous.  “Nasir is a free man.”

“I am,” I agreed as the layers of the argument began to unfold before me.  “As free as the both of you.”

Duro rolled his eyes.  “Not so free at all when our fates are tied together.”

Agron grabbed his brother’s arm.  “Cease.”

“Fuck off.  Nasir does not see--”

“The matter is resolved.”

“No, it bides its time before fucking us all in ass!”

I lunged between them, hand to chest of each hotheaded German.  “Break plain words!” I hissed.  “I would know the cause of discord!”

“We stand together.  There is no discord,” Agron insisted, expression closed.

“We stand together because you swallow fucking tongue!” Duro breathed hotly.  “You submit to Nasir’s will rather than risk him parting ways with us again.”

Agron fumed.  “I submit to nothing!”

“You submit to fear!”

“As have I!”

A moment of silence snapped through the air as in the wake of a whip’s crack.

I cleared my throat and repeated the words I had just spoken: “As have I.”  Huffing out a burst of air, I asked them both, “By whose hand do you think Lucretia and Glaber yet live?”

I endured their stares as I shamefully whispered confession: “I stood close enough to both.  So easily, I could have torn throat open with naught but teeth and bare hands.”  Had I?  No, of course not.

“Varro is dead.  Aurelia is a widow and Janus without a father and neither stands avenged -- the intent that returns me to my brothers stands as cause and I cannot--!”

I stopped, choking on the words, strangled by truth.  I could invent as many pragmatic excuses as I liked for not acting against my captors, but in my heart, I knew the foremost reason: I had been held fast by the slight and dim possibility of setting eyes upon my Germans again.

 _ ** **Just once more,****_  I had begged whatever god could hear my silent plea.   _ ** **I would cast gaze upon Agron and Duro once more in this life!****_

I shamed my brothers.  I shamed myself.

I had been stronger when I’d had neither brother nor lover to lose.

Hands upon my shoulders.  One from Agron and another from Duro.  I tensed to push them away, to wrench-spin-throw myself from their grasp--

_****“Show the poor shits mercy.”** ** _

Ah, fuck.

Drawing a steadying breath, I bid them both: “I would undertake whatever acts required to set us three to rights.  If such a thing is possible.”

I doubted it was.  If Duro spoke truth, then Agron feared crossing purposes with me.  I had already proven that I would follow my own path, even if it led me away from them.  Agron respected my right to do this, but Duro had an equally relevant point: I could not call them brothers without carefully weighing their wishes.

“We must hold to each other,” Duro murmured.  Renewing his grasp upon my shoulder, he insisted, “We must stand together or fall divided.”

Wise words.  I would wager that he quoted Spartacus.

Agron nodded once, touching his fingertips to the underside of my chin.  “I would have you stand with us.  Before all other considerations.”

A seemingly simple goal, but I suspected it would prove just as thorny as it had prior to venture toward Vesuvius.  Still…  “Not at expense of injury,” I insisted, cupping Agron’s jaw.

Duro patted my arm.  “I must piss,” he announced, though I suspected his true purpose was to give us a brief moment in private and ensure that others were not eavesdropping.

As he clattered and creaked down the ladder, I slid close, pressing us chest-to-chest and whispered against Agron’s lips: “Apologies.  I--”

“You act upon heart,” Agron interrupted on a rasp.  “There stands no fault in that.”

“Yet, had you acted as I have done…”  In my eagerness to be of use -- to prove myself an asset to our cause and worthy of rescue from the arena -- I had disregarded many things of greater importance.

Huffing out a breath in exasperation, I confessed, “I have never had a lover, and it has been too long since I called anyone brother.  It is not the same as an ally.”

Agron’s hands rubbed warmly at my neck and shoulders.

I spoke: “Would you accept additional charge of ensuring I do not forget that I no longer stand alone?”

“You are not alone,” he agreed, tilting his brow against mine.  “But neither are you shackled.  The words you once spoke of a man unwittingly standing as dominus to another -- I would not command you.”

Breath left me through a sudden smile.  “I would not allow it.”

His grin flashed in the darkness a moment before his lips covered mine.  Opening to him, my tongue sweeping against his surging advance, I closed eyes and took him, gave myself, teetered over the finely balanced pin-point of _****us.****_

My fingers combed through his short hair.  He pulled back and whispered against my lips: “No more whores.”

I agreed with a nod, our noses brushing.  “No collar, either.”

He leaned away.  “Collar?”

I sighed.  I had not detailed my thoughts on latter portions of the plan I’d outlined to Spartacus, but surely now Agron could guess.  Yes, as his hands tensed but did not grip upon my jaw, I knew he just had.

“No fucking collar,” he growled.  His breath was hot but his kiss gentle.  Surprisingly gentle.  I melted into him and he held me up.  Of course he did.  He always would so long as I permitted it.

And now I would have to permit both him and Duro to assist with reformation of strategy.  If I was not to pose as body slave to a fictitious, prominent Roman, another way to accomplish necessary goals must be determined.  Lest our stand upon the slopes of Vesuvius be our last.

Ah, gods.  No.  No, I could not allow my brothers to fall so soon after regaining freedom.  Without them, I would stand empty of heart, my form cold with despair, fury, pain.  I still could not reconcile how my greatest strength, Agron and Duro, could so easily twist and warp into insurmountable weakness, but I did not question that they stood as my foremost motivation to survive.

I confessed this to Agron and, as his arms banded around me, I murmured into bared curve of neck, “Is this the meaning of having brothers?”

Agron’s jaw shifted against my hair and he pressed a kiss to my temple.  “Yes.”

My eyes squeezed shut at his hesitation.  I had asked the wrong question: I had inquired about the nature of brotherly bond, yet he had answered as if I’d asked about love.

Love.

“It pains,” I informed thickly, “as a knot tightening within chest.”

“Tied with mine.  With Duro’s,” Agron whispered urgently, palms pressed to each side of my neck.

Ah, no wonder it felt so tangled and immovable, so snarled and strong.  Yet, should it ever unravel… should a strand ever be severed…

Undiluted fear shot through my being.  I jerked.  Agron’s hands held me steady and mine reached for his neck -- his warmth against fingers and pulse against palm -- closed my eyes and breathed, breathed, breathed.

Embrace the pain.

Of course.  Of course I would.  I _****did.****_   I would endure nothing less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duro taking the initiative to help Agron and Nasir work things out is inspired by “The Hard Headed Brother” by SubtextEquals here on AO3 -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251479


	4. 9000 Denarii (Duro POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none (amazingly enough)
> 
> Music rec: "Carry You" by Ruelle featuring Fleurie
> 
> Duro POV

Nine.

Thousand.

Denarii.

Nine thousand denarii.

“Nine thousand fucking denarii,” I reported, still in awe of the reward Glaber offered for Spartacus’ head.

Spartacus -- the man himself -- barely blinked.

Lydon nodded.  “Notice posted in Neapolis market square showed it so.”

Rhaskos snorted an agreement.  “Vitus and I overheard the same at harbor.  A sizable bounty.”  He grinned with relish, brows arching in challenge that he extended to a sour-looking Crixus.

“Cast it from thoughts,” Mira snarled, tone sharp enough to slice a man’s ears off.  As well as other things of concern.  Spartacus had found himself a fierce woman, indeed.  One who valued his life above mere coin and the comforts it might bring.

I thought of Chadara and cast gaze toward corridor leading from temple cellar where we had gathered to make report.  I could not fathom why she would desire a chamber within these dingy, decrepit walls.  Such an indication of status was overvalued by my estimation.  I’d had my fill of their like within Batiatus’ shithole of a ludus.

Agron’s elbow bumped my arm, jarring me back to the matter of the moment: nine thousand denarii.

A small fortune.  Enough to kill for.  Enough to betray for.

Glancing first at Lysandros, Vitus mumbled as much: “One among our numbers may make attempt to claim it.”

Agron’s eyes narrowed and his tone hardened, words spearing the silence as icy mountain peaks slice the sky: “Break no further words on this.”

Nasir’s gaze moved shrewdly, weighing the tongue of each among our group.  Had I coin to wager, I’d cast Rhaskos as the stupid fuck to break pact of silence.  The witless oaf never bothered to make effort to think before breaking words.  Well, not that I had noticed.

Crixus’ gaze also fell upon his fellow Gaul.  Briefly.  “And if utterance escapes tongue?”

“It must not,” Mira insisted, looking to Spartacus for agreement.

His expression gave no indication of his thoughts on the matter.  He’d been equally blank-faced at my brother’s insistence that we make report immediately and in guaranteed privacy -- a suggestion of Nasir’s.  We had paused for neither rest nor food upon arrival.  Dust from the road still clung to skin.  The scent of piss and shit from city gutters yet lingered in the air around us.  Or perhaps that was simply Rhaskos’ presence.  Regardless, our bellies rumbled with hunger.

Given the precautions Agron had insisted on, Spartacus must have suspected news such as this, but he did not even now appear concerned.

Instead, he frowned and mused idly, “Such a sum would secure a great amount of steel.”

“There are other ways.  Already agreed upon,” Crixus reminded him quietly, clearly thinking of the strategy Nasir had proposed for Neapolis.  A fucking brilliant one.  Nasir had been fucking wasted as a self-loving Roman’s body slave.  This little Syrian could guide entire armies to certain victory.

Spartacus nodded, relenting, and both Agron and I breathed more easily.  “Indeed.  We’ll proceed with plans as discussed.  There’s much to prepare.”

“And Glaber’s reward?” Rhaskos spoke.  “Do we pretend words never fell into fucking ears?”

My chin thrust forward as I cautioned: “If we set them loose, we had better stand ready with watchful eyes.”

Spartacus stubbornly insisted, “Those who remain see value in freedom.”

Crixus gave vicious correction: “They stay because they do not see advantage in setting foot to path.  So much coin will change at least one view.”

All it would take was one ambitious fool to end us all.

Gods save me; I stood with Crixus on this.  We could not afford to assume that no one would be moved to seek out Glaber in exchange for promise of reward.  Never mind that Glaber would sooner kill an escaped slave than place coin in hand.

“No,” Nasir murmured in a tone I was coming to know very well, “let us speak of it freely.”

Agron wasn’t the only one to startle and gawp at the Syrian.

“Little brother…” I began, uncertain of my own meaning.

“It is a moot point,” he continued deliberately, “if we make haste to claim the reward for ourselves.”

Stunned.  Fucking.  Silence.

“At the cost of Spartacus’ life?” Mira hissed in disbelief.

Nasir scoffed.  “Of course not.  The arena of Capua is little more than soot stains on sand.  Anyone who can concoct such a scheme and see it through can surely swindle a desperate Roman out of his coin.”

My brow quirked.  “You have a plan.”  Of course.

Agron tilted his chin down, expression expectant.

Nasir shrugged lightly.  Confident.  Smug.

“I would hear this,” Spartacus invited before turning to remind Rhaskos, Lydon, Lysandros, and Vitus of the meal that awaited above.  “Take well-earned rest,” the Thracian insisted.

My stomach grumbled resentfully as they set foot toward cook pot and evening portions.  I manfully ignored both it and Nasir’s sidelong look.

Once only six pairs of ears remained in temple cellar, Crixus demanded: “I would also hear this plan to escape with both Spartacus’ life and Glaber’s coin.”

Nasir glanced significantly toward Mira, who nodded and stiffly offered: “I stand watch, but mind the echo.”

My little brother waited until she had positioned herself at corridor’s bend before speaking thoughts: “I suggest not a plan, but a diversion.”  He then stared hard at Spartacus, who stared back.  Meaning passed between them in silence.

I glanced toward Agron in baffled surprise, but my brother merely shook his head: _****Later -- we shall break words on it later.****_

I huffed unhappily, but kept tongue behind teeth.

Spartacus’ gaze turned inward.  “Yes, why risk one’s own life confronting a Roman praetor…”

Nasir continued: “Who may not hold to word and relinquish promised reward…”

“When delivery of fucking coin into waiting hands stands assured,” Crixus rasped, clearly stunned.

Frankly, I was stunned that the Gaul had grasped their meaning while I stood frustrated with confusion.

“What--fucking--!”  I rubbed my temples, weary with hunger, lack of sleep, and the day’s exertion.  “Ugh, my head hurts.”

Yet I found no commiseration offered from even my own fucking brother; Agron gazed at Nasir with stunned appreciation.  Goatfuck.  How was I the only one in ignorance?  I punched Agron’s arm and hitched my brows insistently.

He bluntly explained, “An easier task -- to steal coin from us rather than pry it from Roman grasp.”

“Or risk receiving nail and cross rather than coin in reward for effort,” Crixus added.

“Spartacus has proven himself capable of succeeding against unfavorable odds.”  Nasir turned to the man in question: “If you make announcement of intention, it will buy us time.”

Time.  Right.  Anyone tempted by the reward would prefer to wait for Spartacus’ return in order to steal coin _****from us****_  and then seek escape.  Betrayal delayed.  Hm.  I was fucking impressed.  Except for one detail--

“Scheme sends you from our sight,” Crixus spoke to the Thracian.

I rolled my eyes.  Yet again, we were of similar mind.  Ugh.  I would puke if my belly were not fucking hollow.

To Spartacus I inquired, “And what will you do for however long this venture would last?  Squat in the woods and count fucking sticks?”

Again, a look -- a moment of like-minded communication -- passed between Nasir and Spartacus.

The Thracian smiled.  “If I’m not mistaken, our Syrian brother has a suggestion in mind.”

He did.  One that even I couldn’t resist appreciating the brilliance of.  It was daring and dangerous, yes, but what venture worth undertaking was not?

Discussion was swiftly concluded and plans set.  Spartacus moved to collect Mira and break words on acquiring volunteers for coming quest.  Crixus deigned to depart as well, leaving the three of us to linger in temple cellar.

Agron beamed at Nasir, clearly struck dumb by his lover’s cunning.

In exasperation, I complained to my little brother: “How is it your mind concocts these things?”

The look Nasir sent me was startlingly sharp.  “Do you recall Roman knowledge shared?  Of Hannibal’s assault?”

I nodded.  “What has that to do with us?  We do not face elephants!”

“Do we not?” he quietly challenged.

Well.  Goatfuck.

He hissed softly.  “Spartacus served alongside the Roman army and I have studied texts detailing past victories.”  A hesitant smile appeared.  “Varro’s father was partial to them and, as his eyesight failed, I was charged with reading aloud favored works.”

“You and Spartacus share an understanding of strategy,” I summarized, unable to not cast gaze toward Agron for signs of irrational envy.

Nasir’s gaze flickered toward Agron as well, but where I was wary, my Syrian brother was tolerant.  Amused, even.  “We share an understanding of Roman thinking.”  And then a frown -- intent and urgent -- creased his brow before he added: “I would make offer of instruction -- that you both learn their ways.”

I scoffed.  Our movements since ludus uprising had consisted mainly of running and hiding like frightened rabbits.  “Of little benefit to us thus far.”

“Only because Rome thinks us beneath dogs,” Agron argued.  “The day when they no longer underestimate us draws closer.”

Nasir concurred in solemn silence.  Two against one.  Fuck.

Agron grabbed my arm.  “Speak, brother.  Why refuse this gift?”

“Such great fucking gift -- a man’s mind polluted!”

“Polluted?” my brother repeated, thoroughly confused.

Nasir was not.  “Apologies, Duro.  When I broke words regarding Zaria and--”

I shrugged Agron’s arm off.  “It does not fucking matter.  Advice was heeded and put to use for benefit of others.”

“Yet not yours.  Duro, I do not seek to dampen spirit, but to open eyes.”

“To better view horrors.”

“To better defeat them,” Agron insisted.  “As a free man.”

“Infected by their sickness?  As if yet a slave?”

Nasir lashed out, shoving me in chest.  I stumbled back a full step, blinking at him in shock.

He snarled: “You were never a slave of Rome!  Neither you nor Agron.  You may have exposed cocks and killed on Roman command, but when have either of you ever averted gaze, bowed head, and begged for mercy only to realize that doing so incites further cruelties?”

I gaped at him.  “I--”  Swallowing thickly, I glanced at Agron.  Fuck.  I could see he was imagining Nasir in such circumstances, and he appeared a moment away from smashing temple walls to rubble with bare, fisted hands.  I made reply for both of us: “We have not.”

The tension bled from my little brother on a long exhalation.  “You have always been free men at heart.”

“And you,” I insisted.

Nasir shook his head.  “I made a study of Roman ways for survival.  That is what slaves must do.”

“This is not survival?” Agron checked, brows twitching in a mirror image of my own.

Our little brother -- our Syrian warrior -- grinned.  Sharp and hungry.  “No, it is not.”

Fuck the gods.  He spoke truth, just as Spartacus had spoken truth time and time again with each villa taken: we would make the Romans _****bleed****_  for taking us as dogs.  This was not about survival, but repayment of pain.

I nodded.  “Then teach us their ways.  My ears stand open.”

Agron snorted.  “A first.”

“Fuck a--”  I stopped, glanced at Nasir’s twitching smirk, and huffed.  With a disgusted growl, I quit them both, marching down the corridor and making for the steps.  Words would be wasted upon those two, and there were others with whom I would speak them.

Following a proper fucking meal.

Clambering out of earthen cellar, I collected a bowl and share of bread from Euclid, who was amicably arguing with Libo about some root or herb or other.  I sought company as well, but when my gaze landed upon Chadara, I found her listening intently as Mira whispered to Aurelia.  Well.  Spartacus’ woman had wasted no time setting plan in motion.

Heart suddenly heavy, I cast gaze elsewhere and grinned at the sight of Naevia chasing a giggling Janus around the scattered pallets upon the portico.  Crixus watched them from a distance, a gleam in his eye that I was certain I’d never seen from the Gaul before.  It took little imagination to follow the bend of his thoughts: fatherhood.

Fuck the gods.

I sat with Donar.  He grunted a greeting.  I nodded and began to eat.

When the man offered neither sarcastic remark nor cutting jest, I glanced his way.  His mouth was occupied with a frown, his gaze aimed at Chadara among solemn gathering.  As Mira spoke, Aurelia cradled her babe-rounded belly, reminding anyone who looked on that a rebel camp on the verge of discovery was no place for a woman heavy with child.

When Chadara reached out a hand to Aurelia’s shoulder in show of solidarity, Donar’s jaw locked and his eyes narrowed with determination.

Fuck the fucking gods, I knew the meaning of such distraction.  Agron had been no subtler in his fascination with Nasir.

For a moment, fury burned hot and fierce within me -- Chadara had chosen _****me!****  _\-- but then my anger dissipated like dew under sunlight.  Chadara, though lovely, was not for me.  Nor was I for her.  We barely understood one another.  Our aims opposed.  Such was not required for a fuck, but again I thought of my brother and Nasir.  Lovers who stood equals.

Chadara had never made attempt to stand as my equal in intent or ability.  She wrinkled her nose at learning the bow and arrow.  She did not volunteer for tasks, content to wait to be assigned work.  In fact, the only service I had seen her undertake of her own choosing was attending to Aurelia and Janus.  Her heart did not beat for rebellion, but it did beat: more and more, she freely spoke her mind.

I recalled the trek to Vesuvius and Chadara’s sharp observation of Donar: “By what reasoning do hands carry neither basket nor sack?”

The fuck had smirked.  “These hands will spill Roman blood in effort of saving your life.”

“Such focus.  You stand incapable of dropping burden before grasping weapon?”

“Would that you had a weapon, you might provide demonstration.”

Chadara had shoved her basket into Donar’s chest and stomped on his foot.  Donar had cursed and snarled.  I’d doubled over with laughter, readily allowing Chadara to duck behind me and beyond reach of immediate retaliation.

“She makes excellent point,” I had allowed, holding out my arms for the basket.  I told her, “I will carry it a while if you cast gaze to the trees and keep watch.”

Donar had harrumphed and stormed up toward the front of the line.  Chadara had watched him.

As he watched her now.

I sighed and ate my fucking supper.

Just as Agron and Nasir joined us with their own meals in grasp, Spartacus stood and made expected announcement:

“The most recent venture proves fruitful,” the Thracian informed all, “with the promise of bearing more good fortune.  Glaber offers substantial reward for the capture of Spartacus.  Coin I would see put to use in our favor.  To that end, I depart on the morrow to claim it.”

I smirked at the shocked gasps and whispers.  Spartacus did not offer details, which was just as well.

I watched from the steps as he moved through the yard, speaking with one man of the Brotherhood after another: the Iberian Lydon, the Celt Fulco, the Sardinian Rabanus, the Greek Plenus, the Gaul Acer, the Judean Leviticus, and the Numidian Ortius.  One man each from differing homelands.  Just as Nasir had recommended.

Again, I shook my head in wonder at the little man’s mind for strategy.

Finishing the last of my evening’s portion, I rose to rinse and return bowl.  In passing, I took notice of Mira and Camilla preparing a cart for travel -- the one Marius had ridden in on ill-fated venture to his cousin’s villa.  It would aid them well, supporting the fiction of Marius’ favor toward the pregnant wife of honored friend.

So, Aurelia had agreed to Nasir’s plan.  I returned to my seat beside Agron and was unsurprised by Chadara’s approach.  She avoided my gaze.  I was unsurprised by that as well.

“Nasir,” she said.  Only that.

He nodded.  “There is much information you will require.”  He moved to stand.  Agron held out his hand for his lover’s empty bowl.

Chadara turned to Donar and me.  “Accompany us?  As Aurelia’s guards?”

“Where are you bound?” Donar inquired.

“A domus in Roman city.  To await birth of child.  Camilla attends as midwife.”

Nasir observed: “A venture that may take weeks or months.”

“Or longer, if the gods yet care,” Chadara agreed, watching Donar and myself carefully.

Her invitation seemed genuine, but I slowly shook my head.  “I will see you to the road on the morrow, but no further.”

“Duro…” she began.

“I choose to face the Romans,” I informed with a cocky smile, “and send them on their way to the afterlife.”

Agron placed his free hand upon my shoulder, offering me a beaming grin.  This look of pride aimed at me was still new.  A marvel.  I realized I was grinning widely when my cheeks began to ache.

“I will accompany.”

Agron and I both turned toward Donar.  His gaze and Chadara’s had locked, closing the two of them off from the rest of us.

She smiled, slow and sweet.  Lovelier than I had ever seen.  Donar was indeed a lucky shit.  “Gratitude, Donar,” she whispered shyly.

Camilla called her name and Chadara hesitated a moment before answering.  But answer she did.

As she crossed the yard, I knocked a fist against Donar’s shoulder.

“You abandon battle for cunt?” Agron coughed out, shocked.

“Fuck ass on pike,” our countryman replied absent heat.  “I do this for Varro.”

“Hm.”

I could hear in my brother’s grunt that he only partially believed him.  As did I.  

I teased, “At this rate, you shall never slay more Roman fucks than I.”

He shrugged, his gaze flicking briefly toward Chadara.  Turning back to us, he sighed heavily, though his smile mocked his show of disappointment.  “A price I willingly pay.”

Still standing, Nasir pointed out: “Do you recall I once gave warning regarding the perils of pursuing a woman of varied skills?”

Donar laughed and relented.  He could not hide his interest from us and he fucking knew it.  “I would count myself fortunate should she attempt to practice them upon me.”

With a shake of his head, Nasir sputtered softly with humor: “This is how a man sets foot upon path to servitude.”

Donar’s brows arched.  “Do you not bow to the will of these two shits?”  He jerked his chin at my brother and myself.  “At least upon occasion?”

Agron and I both looked to Nasir.  He looked at us, his lips curving in a wry smile.  Yes, he’d heeded my words in Neapolis.  Both he and my stubborn, hard-headed brother had.  It was fucking gratifying to have sorted out those two stupid fucks.

Nasir’s next words confirmed it.  To Donar, he accused: “Fucking German.”

“Fuck these two and leave me out of it.”

I rolled my eyes.  Agron snorted.  Nasir held out his arm to Donar, who clasped it heartily.

Agron stood as well, clapping the man on shoulder.  “You will be missed.”

“My ax, perhaps,” the man replied with a smirk.

“Then leave it here!” I quipped.  Gaining my feet, I brightly offered: “I gladly look after it for you!”

Agron rolled his eyes.  “Gods save us.”

Nasir ignored us both and affected a glower, which he directed toward Donar.  “Is that sole purpose you believe suits you?”

He challenged: “How many among those who remain would mourn me?”

What goat shit was this?  Of course we would mourn him -- the three of us along with all those of the Brotherhood!  But Donar was now looking toward Chadara as she lifted a cranky, sleepy-eyed Janus to her hip and… fuck.

Agron nodded in understanding I shared: we would mourn Donar’s death and carry on fighting, just as we would bid him a safe journey and carry on fighting.  The man now found himself on the cusp of a chance at family in some manner or other.  A protector of a fallen brother’s beloved wife.  A mentor to his son.  A friend and companion to a woman who refused to flinch from his crude stupidity.

“Then go with them,” Agron said.  “May you count many blessings, brother.”

Agron clasped Donar’s arm in farewell.  I offered mine next.

Nasir said to Donar, “Though you will pose as a guard employed by Aurelia’s honored husband, there is much I must tell so that none will question your time spent among Marius’ men.”

Donar scowled.  “Marius?”

Agron smirked.  “Who do you think the cart belongs to?”

“Or the domus where Varro’s family will be receiving hospitality?” Nasir added.  “Come.  Let us inquire who else joins venture so that I need break words only once.”

As Nasir gestured with a nod for Donar to follow him, Agron bumped my shoulder with fist.

I met his expectant look.  Shrugged.  “You fucking saw them.  She is not for me.”

Agron scanned the portico, his gaze halting when he found Aurelia.  “Chadara isn’t the only one you may never cross paths with again.”

How and when had the blind oaf even noticed me breaking words with Varro’s widow?  I shook my head, sighing.  I was too fucking tired for this shit.  “You mistake purpose of conversation.”

“Do I?”

With an aggravating pat to my cheek, Agron left to tend to both his and Nasir’s bowls.  I found myself absent task.  The temple wall called to me and I answered.  I found Gannicus contemplating the darkness in silence.  It suited me, and I sat an arm’s length away from him.

“A precarious position,” the Celt suddenly volunteered.

At my expectant look, he finished the thought: “For purpose of passing time.”

I snorted.  “You are in for a fucking long wait if you expect wine to fall from the heavens.”

He laughed.  “As well received as such a happening would be, no.  My purpose yet sleeps within infirmary.  I would ask yours.”

“Out of boredom?”

“Eh,” he shrugged.  “Or curiosity.  Whichever you prefer.”

I nodded, yet kept my silence.  My swirling thoughts defied words.  I thought of my brother.  I thought of all the times either one of us could have stumbled onto the shores of the afterlife… or been parted in this world until meeting there.

I thought of the hearth shared by my father and mother.

I thought of the treasure Agron had found in Nasir.

I thought of the purpose Donar might gain.

I was not envious.  I had both admired and envied my brother -- in some manner or other -- nearly every day of my life; the stirring sting of jealousy was a familiar river current that I had alternately fought and allowed myself to be swept along in many times.  What I felt now was not a raging torrent of fondness and frustration; I _****ached,****_  echoed as if chest played host to a rocky hollow.

I thought of battle.  Roman blood.  Would that fill the void?

Gannicus had spoken truth: I found myself in precarious position.  I held it long after the Celt departed, announcing intent to seek slumber.  I held it until two others joined me.

Agron, his duties in assisting Spartacus with preparations complete.

Nasir, his charge of passing needful information to those among Aurelia’s company finished.

My mouth twitched.  I breathed deep and my shoulders slumped upon exhale.  Agron’s elbow rubbed against mine.  Nasir’s callused hand clamped down on my shoulder.  My brothers.  They had each other in a way I wasn’t entirely sure I understood -- or even expected I might one day share with a wife of my own -- but I nonetheless had them.  And my brothers had me.

I was satisfied.

Smiling, I told them both: “An early start, yes?”

Agron’s chin twitched to the side in agreement.

“In that case, I would make request.”  I leered at them in turns, brows waggling.

Nasir snorted.  With a smirk, he played along: “If we are unable to restrain ourselves--”

Catching on, Agron barked out a laugh.  “--we shall make silent fucking endeavor.”

I clapped them each on the shoulder and descended to the yard to find my pallet.  I located both it and a slender figure seated upon it.

“Chadara,” I greeted.

Though she smiled up at me, she appeared sad.  “Duro.”

Collapsing tiredly beside her, I tilted my head and waited for her to speak.

Long moments passed before she did.  “Gratitude.”  Her slender hand found mine.  Her fingers squeezed tightly.  “Your efforts have seen me changed.  The woman I could become -- I catch glimpses of her at times.  I like her.”

Grinning, I agreed: “I like her as well.”

“But she is not meant for battle.”  She bowed her head.  “Rome is the only home I’ve ever known…”

I reached out to tuck a dangling tendril of silken hair behind her ear.  “Aurelia offers opportunity to return to it.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.  Then Chadara volunteered: “I asked Donar why he made choice to accompany.”

I bit back a smirk.  “And his response?”

“He claims not to know.”

“Then perhaps you -- and Janus and Aurelia -- may assist him in learning it.”

She nodded.  Her smile was wry now -- she suspected I knew more of Donar’s mind than I shared, but I would keep the man’s secrets.  Let Chadara pry them out of him.  A game they would both benefit from.

I told her, “I will see you on your way come morning.”

Chadara leaned in and pressed a kiss high upon my cheek.  She then stood and made her way up to the portico where Aurelia and Janus took rest.  I lay down and closed my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, there are two rebel schemes going on at the same time:
> 
> Scheme 1 concerns liberating fighting men from ships docked in Neapolis harbor. (Scheme 1 is a reinterpretation of the plans to add warriors to their ranks in Spartacus: Vengeance, but I have not given you much in the way of details on how Nasir's plan differs from canon events yet. I WILL SHOW YOU YES I WILL.) The rebels have two weeks (14 days by modern-day weeks / 16 days by the 8-day Roman week) before the ship from Germania arrives.
> 
> In the meantime, Spartacus embarks on Scheme 2 (which is the rebels' response to the "curve ball" Glaber throws at them in the form of that canon-based, 9000-denarii bounty on Spartacus). Though Sparty tells everyone he’s going to somehow claim the reward Glaber is offering, this is a lie. (It looks like Sparty is being a little more cautious of protecting their group as a whole in the wake of that Vipio fiasco.) More on the "who-what-when-where-why-how" of Scheme 2 in the next chapter. This chapter was intentionally focused on Duro, Chadara, and Donar.
> 
> Speaking of Donar and Chadara... I admit, I 'ship them BUT only when Chadara has the confidence to speak her mind. I think they fail as a couple in the TV show because Chadara tells Donar what she thinks he wants to hear in order to get what she wants. (This works on Rhaskos... not so much on Donar.) In APMF, Chadara looks to Aurelia (and the fact that Aurelia is a freeborn Roman citizen) to provide protection and position. We've already seen that Donar respects Nasir for speaking his mind and standing up to him, and this carries over to Chadara when she refuses to be intimidated by him. So... I think they could be good for each other?? I guess we'll just see what happens... (^_~)


	5. Target Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Acer’s got a rather graphic boast to share (but that’s par for the course for him, yeah?)

Kerfuffle.

The noise of shuffling feet.  Camilla’s authoritative voice giving direction.  Janus’ periodic calls for his mother or “Cha-wa.”  The clank of Roman armor settling in place upon the chests and limbs of former gladiators.  Dawn had already come and gone and there was no time for loitering.

Agron, Duro, and I donned cloaks, coats, and swords.  Donar reluctantly passed a startled and beaming Duro his ax.  Rabanus passed me my favored spear and then, surprisingly, offered his own to Agron.

“I have never seen you fight with spear,” I told my lover.

He smirked.  “I do not.  But my aim is good.”

“Better with that than a bow,” Duro needled, matching his brother’s smirk.

Agron pointed a finger in his brother’s face.  “Do not start what you stand unprepared to finish.”

Duro snorted once and made no promises on the matter.

We broke our fast, stocked the cart with enough food for the day, passed out packs of provisions to Spartacus and his men, and began journey.  Calius drove the cart.  Camilla, Chadara, Aurelia, and Janus rode within.

Agron, Duro, and I scouted ahead to ensure no one crossed their path between the temple and main thoroughfare.  We encountered no poachers, no bandits, no Romans.

Spartacus was cheered: “A good sign.  Camp yet remains undiscovered.”

Agron nodded, expression grim and determined.  “We will prepare for confrontation.”

The Thracian smiled at the three of us.  “I know of no men better suited to see it done.”

Just as we knew of no man better suited to the task that lay at road’s end.

With the road near, Spartacus called a halt, gestured the men close, and finally broke words on the true nature of their mission: they were bound not for Capua, but Pompeii.

The day before, standing with Agron, Duro, Spartacus, Crixus, and Mira in temple basement, I had pointed out: “Capua was not alone in having an arena, and where there stands an arena, there stands a ludus.”

Agron had grinned.  “And where there stands a ludus, there are fighting men.”

Duro had energetically concluded: “Fighting men who would readily rally to our cause!”

“Readily?”  Spartacus had warned, cautioning against making assumptions.  “We know not the minds of these men.  Nor gain opportunity to break words absent uprising.”

“You overlook obvious allies,” I had playfully scolded: “ludus slaves whose cooperation may be gained with either words or promise of coin.”

“There is yet time -- two weeks,” Crixus had further persuaded, “to win them to cause.”

And so Spartacus would make attempt.

We even had pretense for venture: a Roman woman heavy with child seeking peace and comfort for the coming birth.  In addition, we had a domus: Marius’ residence in Pompeii.  Someone from his villa would have to accompany in order to provide explanation and give instruction to the slaves who maintained the house there, but I’d been certain there would be at least one volunteer.

There was.

Chadara.

Our paths would now part ways.  I was sad for it, but my sympathy I reserved for Duro.

Duro, who had chosen his brothers rather than the woman he favored.

As Spartacus now explained his plan to make contact with the gladiators of Pompeii and incite them to rebel, I moved toward the cart and rapped upon the door.  My friend opened it and I could not help but notice how her smile wobbled.  She had expected someone else.

Well, he may yet bid her a final farewell.  In aid of that, I would be brief with my words.

“Are you certain of this course?” I checked, scanning Chadara for signs of hesitancy even as I knew full well that she could skillfully conceal her innermost thoughts if she so desired.

Before she could answer, Janus wiggled past her and leaped from the cart.

“Janus!” Aurelia called from the doorway.  Her exhaustion was clear, yes, but she was resplendent in the fine silk dress that had been taken from one of the villas.  Many such clothes had been brought to temple should disguise be needful: guard uniforms, Roman armor and cloaks, fine robes and the wear of humble servants, the latter which Camilla and Chadara now wore.  As well as the leather collars that Chadara and Calius had once borne.  This time, they willingly donned mark of ownership.

Aurelia called again: “Janus!  Return to cart!”

The boy ignored her, barreling toward nearest familiar figure: a burly German in guard’s uniform.

Donar lifted a hand in reply to Aurelia’s call before lumbering toward Janus with arms comically outstretched.  “The hunter will catch you, little boy!”

Janus squealed and spun beneath long, sweeping limbs.

Aurelia allowed Camilla to assist her in settling back into the cart.

I cast gaze toward Chadara, who had eyes upon little Janus as he raced around Donar’s legs again and again, giggling every time the gladiator’s rough fingers drummed softly upon the top of the boy’s head.  “This is your choice?” I inquired again.  “You are certain?”

“I am certain,” she answered, reluctantly tearing her attention away from their play.  “I wish to stay with Aurelia and lend welcome aid.”

I would not argue against worthy cause of serving Aurelia and her children.  However, I pressed upon another avenue: “Donar’s presence holds no sway upon the bend of your thoughts?”

She tilted her head back on a breathy giggle.  “Oh, Nasir.”

My heart swelled at her acceptance of the man I had become.  And perhaps I felt a measure of pride at catching a glimpse of her heart.

Her eyes sparkled with laughter and challenge and pleasure even as her lips offered protest: “That brute?  What could such a man offer a woman such as me?”

With sidelong suspicion, I murmured, “Not long ago, you seemed certain my brother Duro offered something of worth.”

Chadara shook her head on a soft sigh.  “You know my mind and my preference for the comforts of a domus.”

I huffed, humored.  “And I know Duro’s.”  Such comforts were beneath his notice; his tastes were simple and immovably stubborn.  I considered a word of warning that she not abandon true happiness for perfumed oils and honeyed dates, but Chadara was no fool.  She was well aware that she was presented choice, and she had made it.  The venture upon which she embarked was dangerous -- if Marius’ death was discovered, if Aurelia’s identity was revealed, if Donar’s brand was seen…

Drawing a breath, I banished my concerns.  Between Chadara’s cleverness and Donar’s courage, they would prevail.

She reached for my roughened hands.  “When our paths cross again, I will offer you fine wine and a soft bed to rest upon.”

Glancing back toward Argon, I implored, “In quantity for more than one.”

“You and your Germans,” she gently chided.

I did not point out that she had one of her own within grasp.

With a quick kiss upon each cheek, Chadara sent me away.  I went without complaint, lingering only long enough to wish many blessings upon Aurelia and her children.  Then I stepped back, making room for Duro.  Neither nudge nor pointed look were required to urge him toward cart.  I approached Donar and an untiring Janus as Duro leaned irreverently against the cart opening, all charming grin and wiggling brows.

“Fucking pup,” Donar muttered fondly.

Rather than remind Donar that Janus possessed a fine pair of ears, I declared, “You were a good student, German.  Where you are bound, wit will serve you better than it would upon field of battle.”

His smile was wry.  “The thought of never spilling blood again…”  He sighed, forlorn.  “Should it be so, I will place blame upon Varro.”

I pointed out, “Yet your gaze never lingered overlong on Varro.”

“Nor does it linger on you,” he retorted gamely.  “Your appetite for German ass and cock amazes.”

I shrugged.  “Eh.  I am Syrian.”

He laughed.  Janus squealed.  I slapped Donar’s arm and rejoined Agron.  My lover stood at Spartacus’ side, glowering.

“We could take both coin and Pompeii’s gladiators,” Fulco insisted with an ambitious grin.

Leviticus offered comment: “The men of Pompeii stand the lesser sum.”

Acer cursed and spat on the ground in agreement.

Agron snarled: “And if bounty were placed on your head, you would make attempt to seize coin?”

The Gaul smirked.  “I would seize cock and fuck Glaber raw.  Unlike others who lack balls for the task!”

Ortius placed a preemptive hand on Acer’s chest.  Agron tensed, but did not move to meet the Gaul’s challenge.

Spartacus spoke: “Plan is set.  We march with Aurelia to Pompeii and see her safely to destination.  Then we concern ourselves with learning both city streets and minds of its gladiators.  Any man who wishes to remain behind may do so and offer aid to Agron and Crixus.”

It went without saying that abandoning the venture would be seen as cowardly.  It also went without saying that any man of the Brotherhood who turned against Spartacus for promise of coin would never see those riches; Glaber would have any and all among the Brotherhood nailed to cross.

Leviticus sighed with resignation.  “Let us hope there is also time to teach Pompeii’s men how to fucking fight.”

Acer snorted.  “If not, let them bumble through Glaber’s lines.  They may yet be of use if soldiers’ feet are caught on their corpses.”

“I find no fault with that logic,” Rabanus concurred.

Spartacus frowned.  “A skilled man kills twice as many Romans.”

A few grumbles and shuffling feet followed, but no one offered retort.  I glanced to Spartacus and he gestured me to speak.

I quickly summarized Pompeii’s defining features and warned of its heated rivalry with neighboring town of Nuceria.

As we did not know precisely what manner of men served in Pompeii’s ludus or who among its fighters was currently recognized as champion, it was best to send an assortment of men, each from a different homeland and each knowing a different tongue.  To better bridge the distance between strangers, to turn enemy into ally.

Yet another way in which house slaves differed from gladiators: we did not give much thought to a fellow’s homeland.  Strength of personal ambition stood a greater concern.  One that I was glad to set aside.

I approached the driver’s seat of wagon and grinned up at the man perched there.  “Calius.”

He smiled down at me.  “Nasir.”

“Gratitude for seeing yourself to temple and delivering message.  You saved lives.”  My own included.

“I but return favor.  A life for a life.  My eyes are open.”

I could ask nothing more of the man.  Instead, I spoke of the future: “Donar will continue instruction in fighting, but let us hope it will not be needful.”

Calius nodded.  Held out his arm.  I clasped it.

I did not bid him farewell.  I did not wish the aid of the gods upon him.  Calius would make his own path.  He stood capable of that now.  And more than a little relieved to escape the inevitable battle.  He had seen enough of rebellion.

Agron, Duro, and I watched as the caravan, escorted under “Roman” guard, moved onto the road and along it until they disappeared from sight.

Duro sighed.

I gripped Agron’s arm before he could needle his younger brother.

“Duro,” I spoke, “I would have you show me how to hunt with thrown spear.”

Agron sent me a look, but he did not argue that he stood the more skilled.  Instead, he jeered, cocky and playful: “An afternoon of effort will see you surpass Duro’s skill.”

Duro grabbed the implement from Agron’s grasp with ease.  “Such a loose grip, brother.  I’m concerned for the satisfaction of your cock.”

Agron flicked his brother’s ear smartly as I snorted and proclaimed: “Such stands my charge.”

Making a face of both humor and protest, Duro begged: “Say no more on it.  I beg you.”

Very well.  Perhaps dearth of details would allow for the discussion of other matters.

Upon our return, Duro and I announced intent to linger in the field surrounding the temple and urged Agron to go on ahead to supervise the morning’s progress.  There had been much excitement over the departure of our leader and overwhelming anticipation regarding his newest scheme, but that enthusiasm -- though welcome -- would not see temple roof repaired or cellar tunnel dug.  These tasks Spartacus had entrusted to Agron, whose sharp gaze would miss nothing yet unattended... including the thoughts weighing his brother.  With a look, my lover made silent request: if I would tend to Duro, he would see to temple.

So had stood my intent from the start, but his show of trust was well received.

I permitted Duro to instruct me on the correct way to both balance a spear and release it with speed and force toward target.  Neither one of us managed to hit the stump at which we aimed.  While I was unbothered by my lack of immediate skill, Duro winced expressively with every miss.

“It has been many days since you practiced,” I assumed.

“It stands no different for Agron, and yet he…”  Duro’s jaw clenched.  “Fuck.”

That look -- beetled brows and narrowed eyes.  A dark memory.  I could only make guess at one: during their first fight in Capua’s arena, Agron had saved his brother’s life with thrown spear.  From Duro’s frustration, I could guess that the force and accuracy of his brother’s throw had been remarkable.  If not that day, then some other.

I said, “You are brothers, not rivals.”

Duro snorted.

I continued, “And even then, there stands little to be gained should you both excel at identical feats.  Do you not strengthen each other through your differences?”  Did not the three of us?  Did not every man of the Brotherhood?  Did not all men and women who chose to stand against Rome and fight?

Duro’s gaze lowered.

I bumped his arm.  “Speak.  Or the next nudge will come from point of spear.”

His lips twitched in a helpless grin.  “Agron succeeds with you.  I failed with Chadara.”

 _ ** **“You****_  and Agron succeed with me,” I quickly corrected him.  “I am a free man.  I was presented choice and made it.”

Those dark, pup-like eyes lifted and searched my expression.

I concluded, “You alone _****succeeded****_  with Chadara.”  Holding up a hand to halt his objection, I reminded him, “She is a free woman.  She was presented choice and made it.”  As Duro’s gaze moved toward the woods and road beyond, I gripped his arm.  Tightly.  “My choice keeps me here.  Her choice sends her away.  But she understood she holds freedom to make it.  You gave that to her.  You, Duro.  You imagine failure where none exists.”

I watched him draw a deep breath and listened as he released it alongside a defeated laugh.  “Do I imagine my spear flying wide of mark?”

“No,” I agreed, and then teased: “But that is why we tolerate your brother, is it not?”

Duro’s laugh echoed across the meadow, bouncing off of temple walls.  I counted that as a victory.  As well as the broad grin he wore upon our return and the beaming smile Agron offered me in clear, heartfelt thanks for it.

“Take midday meal!” he ordered, bellowing over his shoulder to those working upon roof and within yard.

I did not imagine a look of relief on more than one face -- there was no man among our numbers harsher than Agron when necessary task remained incomplete.  Duro’s return had brought the workers welcome reprieve.

He smiled at his elder brother’s approach, holding up a hand to forestall words.  “Yes, you arrogant fuck, Nasir surpasses me in spear-throwing.”

Only just.

Duro rolled his eyes at Agron’s smirk.  “Does that fucking satisfy?”

“So it falls to me to ensure he is able to hit intended target?”

“He,” I interjected loudly, “will hit two targets at once should they continue to discuss him as if he were not present.”

“Oh!  Apologies,” Duro quickly replied with a mocking bow.

I huffed and shoved past a giggling Agron to take my place in the meal line.  As we sat upon portico to eat, Agron suddenly -- and insightfully -- remarked to his brother: “Our paths may cross theirs again one day.”

Duro looked up from contents of bowl and grinned widely.  “And what sad condition Donar will be in!”

I laughed.  “Yes, prepare your jests in advance.”

Duro guffawed.  “Consider it done.”

After another moment of spoon-fed silence, Agron observed: “You wish her well.”

Her?  Chadara or Aurelia?  Hm.  Perhaps it did not matter.  The question was unchanged in either case.

Duro tilted his head to the side in an approximation of a shrug, expression open and carefree.  “I wish for her what I would wish for anyone -- to find one’s own fucking place in all this.”

All this -- a world turned on its end.  Finding one’s place in shifting sand was no easy task.  I could only be thankful for Agron and Duro, for Spartacus, for the Brotherhood; illusion or not, I felt secure footing beneath me.

Although, such stability was not without its own pitfalls as I discovered the following morning.  The Caelian upon whose hospitality our rebellion currently depended eyed me with skepticism when I followed Naevia -- who had clearly been as eager as I for distraction from thoughts turned toward those recently departed from our company -- out toward the treeline for a lesson in archery.

“Will you come and learn to shoot?” she had invited over the sound of Agron roaring at Duro, who shouted back from his perch upon unfinished roof.  Though they bellowed at each other in German, it was clear from Duro’s irate gestures toward the section of timbers he’d already placed that they argued over building technique.  Crixus had taken his remaining men out to hunt and had not yet returned, but it wouldn’t be long before either Euclid began ranting about mannerless fucks or Medicus emerged from his storeroom to scream about shit-for-brains barbarians, adding to the chaos.

I’d quickly accepted offered escape -- “A skill I would gladly acquire at a distance from commotion that I would greatly appreciate.  Gratitude, Naevia.” -- but her endorsement did not appear to be enough to sway the instructor.

“You come to mock the bow?” the Roman demanded of me gruffly.

I frowned, chin twitching aside.  “Mock?”  Had I heard his words correctly?  I inquired, “What fool mocks a thing that may pierce the flesh of enemies?”

The old man crossed his arms.  “You do not share the opinion of _****mighty****_  Agron, who hails from east of the Rhine?”

The snort erupted from me before I could choke it back.  Fuck the gods.  Day by day, all the needful lessons I had learned in order to behave as a proper house slave were turning to piss and shit.   _ ** **Good fucking riddance,****_  my brothers would say.  I declared, “Agron and I share a pallet, not a mind.”

“Hm.”  Lucius squinted at me, perhaps doubting that my lover even possessed a mind.  “He won’t take kindly to his boy shooting sticks at bushes.”

Fury boiled-flashed- _ ** **roared****_  through my entire form.

“I am no one’s _****boy,”****_  I bit out.  Paused.   Forced a deep breath.  “If my presence causes more trouble than a _****man****_  would deign to face, then I shall seek instruction elsewhere.”

Beside me, Naevia fairly gasped at the implied insult.  Mira shifted, tilting her chin up in what couldn’t possibly be approval… could it?

Lucius’ mouth twitched upward in a smirk.  “And what shall be my compensation when that ignorant clod makes attempt to bite my ass?”

I shrugged.  “If you do not care for such attentions, send him to me.  I shall put his mouth to worthwhile use.”

Naevia squeaked.  Mira chuckled.  Lucius grinned.  “I will pass those precise words on to him.”

“I doubt he will heed them,” I wryly admitted.

“Ah!  True love.  The bloom has gone from the rose, but you yet tolerate the oaf.”

I smiled.  “He is not without… talents.”

“And I will thank you to keep knowledge of those to yourself.”

Naevia nudged me in the ribs with sharp elbow.  “But you may tell me all!”

“Indeed!” Mira laughed.  “I would hear what talents a man such as Agron possesses that could entice our learned Syrian.”

Lucius huffed, rolling his eyes.  “Come along, children.  Lesson begins.”

Begin it did.  It then progressed from basic form and stationary targets to shooting both while archer was in motion and target swinging upon pendulum of twine.  Not surprisingly, my bare competency with the first did not translate into skill with the latter.  Mira, however, was a wonder.  As Naevia congratulated her on her enviable shots, I found myself keeping Lucius company on the trek back to temple.

“It still fucking stands,” the old man marveled wryly, glimpsing his home through the trees from hill’s crest.

I huffed out a laugh.  “That you believe my Germans capable of knocking it down -- they would be pleased to know.”  Lifting a hand, I assured my archery instructor, “Do not concern yourself.  I will break no words on it.”

The vow amused him.  “You are skilled in keeping secrets?”

“As all body slaves must be.”

“Yet that is no longer your charge.”

I agreed, “It is not and never shall be again.  For the latter, I owe much gratitude to Spartacus, Agron, Duro, and many others.”

The old man nodded, lips pursed in thought.  “To enable a man -- to put power over his own destiny in his fucking hands -- such is indeed a thing to be admired.”

Hm.  Perhaps he _****could****_  imagine how two crude German brothers had earned my regard.

Duro’s shout of “Goatfucking shit!  Suck a cock and leave me to work in peace!  Where in all of shit and piss is Nasir?” had me rolling my eyes skyward.

Lucius remarked, “A tiresome duty you find yourself tasked with.”

“Indeed.”

“Should you grow over-weary of those fucking oafs, I would break words.”

My brows arched.

The old man allowed with a faint grin, “It has been many years since I’ve engaged in intelligent discussion of the classics.  I trust you were so schooled.”

“I was.”  And I had likewise spent the last several years absent opportunity to enjoy the fruits of my education.  Returning the outcast Roman’s smile, I replied, “Gratitude for the offer, honored host.”

“Fuck the gods.  Call me Lucius.”

I grinned; regarding favored curses, he and my brothers did have something in common.  I held no intent to point to this, but from the old Roman’s sudden bark of laughter, he had perhaps taken notice absent my assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the course of trying to figure out which Roman cities in Campania likely had arenas and ludi, I found a reference to a riot between citizens of Pompeii and Nuceria (a.k.a. Nuceria Alfaterna). The riot apparently broke out during gladiatorial games in 59 AD. Yes, it’s something like 130 years after Spartacus’ time, but considering other “sports” rivalries and the mania fans get swept up in, I assume that this animosity had been brewing for a while.
> 
> EDIT: I meant to add a note about Lucius' implication that Agron sneered at learning the bow. (According to Duro's teasing back in "The Arena: Chapter 7," Agron's not very good with it, so that may have been a large part of Agron's scoffing. Heh.) I was imagining that the conversation which takes place in 2x06 where Spartacus asks Lucius to teach the bow and arrow to anyone who wants to (or can) learn and Agron's all, "Oh, yeah, we had LOADS of opportunities to use arrows in the fucking arena!" and Lucius is all, "Yeah, well, it's not like you can forge a sword from a fucking tree now, can ya?" I love that moment in the TV show, so I imagine it totally happened like that here in APMF but BEFORE Calius showed up to report on Nasir and Pyrrhus' capture.


	6. Token of Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (butchering meat), GROSS STUFF (brain-tanning a hide), SEXYTIMES

A sigh.

I grinned in reply, watching Oenomaus’ lashes flutter and lift.  All I’d said was: “Gannicus has gone hunting with Crixus.”

I’d reported to infirmary to endure examination by Medicus and then been ordered to remain and keep watch over Oenomaus while the man fetched morning meal from Euclid.  Alone with my former doctore, I’d considered both Gannicus’ devoted vigil and the terse words Oenomaus had muttered at the man upon the sands of Capua’s arena, and made assumption that Oenomaus might very well feign sleep in effort to avoid the Celt.

My theory appeared proven true.

“You are in forgotten temple of Greek origin near Vesuvius,” I told without being prompted, fetching a cup of water to ease his dry throat.  “Manned by a Roman long of years who wishes ill fate upon those of his countrymen that abandoned him to poverty.”

Sliding a hand under the Numidian’s head, I assisted him in sipping slowly from the cup.  “We are not discovered by Roman soldiers yet, but we count several hundred in number.  Most are freed house slaves.  Some shepherds.  All those of the Brotherhood save Peirastes.  He escorts a small group toward freedom.”  It was not necessary for me to speak of Hamilcar or Varro.

Cup drained, I lowered Oenomaus back to prone position and moved away to fill it again.  “Spartacus undertakes venture to see our numbers increased with fighting men.  Although,” I allowed with a shrug, “whether newcomers stand competent as such remains to be seen.  Your instruction would be well received, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes at the form of address but did not correct me.  Again, he drank and finished the cup.  I indicated the bucket in far corner, a vessel meant for shit and piss.  With a nod, Oenomaus muttered, “Assistance,” and I readily supported him as he relieved himself.

Once finished, I offered my shoulder as he shuffled back toward the raised platform and eased himself down onto the bed of tanned pelts.  He panted as if just having returned from a lengthy bout in the arena.

“Pyrrhus?” he inquired on a weary exhalation and I shook my head.

“He rests among the ashes of Capua’s arena.”

“It burned?”

“Down to the sands.  A timely intervention by Spartacus, Agron, and Duro.”

“Hm.  I had thought it a dream.”  The man’s lips twitched and his eyes closed.  It belatedly occurred to me that he assumed I had been intended target of rescue.  Fuck.  I surely had.  Duro had told of the announcement of execution displayed in Capua’s market.  But had they known I stood with Doctore, their efforts would not have been lessened.

Still, it was sobering to realize I had inspired such daring actions.  The pain of wounds had clouded my appreciation of their reckless bravery until this moment.  In truth, I did not know what to make of it.

“I fetch morning meal,” I told the man and he uttered no objections.

The portico was crowded with people eagerly clinging to a few moments of idleness before being called to begin daily tasks.

Following Spartacus’ departure, Agron had been unrelenting in driving all to attend their charge, and I was truly grateful for his inclination to command.  It went unsaid that Crixus preferred to focus the majority of his effort and attention upon Naevia… even if doing so damned the rest of the world to Pluto’s gates.  Though a formidable warrior, Duro appeared too soft of heart and boyish.   Even his bouts of temper were all bluster.  Oddly enough, our former experience as body slaves would have seen Santos and myself sharing the position.  But I held no illusions that the results of our efforts would ever match the success of Agron’s.  His single-minded determination would see careful plans to fullest fruition.

“You hold too many bowls,” my lover called softly, his touch coasting over bare shoulder.

I turned, smiled, and lifted chin to receive a soft kiss.  He held his own portion of morning meal in hand.

He invited, “Will you sit a moment?”

“Had I a moment, I would.”

“Only a moment?  I must choose it wisely,” he teased, yet I shared his eagerness for more.

Well aware of how little time remained to us before Glaber learned of our location, I answered, “I would spend every moment at your side, but Medicus has not yet relieved me of charge.”

“The sour fuck.”  Despite the harsh words, Agron’s tone was fond.  “Your arm requires additional treatment?”

“Nothing unexpected,” I temporized, unwilling to reveal Oenomaus’ return to us absent the man’s permission.  “I will find you once I am released.  Our supplies dwindle.”

He nodded.  “Collect Duro as well.  Perhaps Crixus if he has returned and can be made to part from Naevia’s side.”

Unlikely.  Agron and I shared a wry look and I exhaled heavily.

My gaze moved over the yard and the wooden framework that would act as shelters by night for our new allies or platforms for lookouts by day...  and then my attention shifted past temple wall toward surrounding woods where Crixus and Gannicus hunted… and perhaps bonded enough to commit the Celt to our cause.  But, inevitably, my eyes turned south toward Pompeii.  How long had the march taken to reach the city?  Less than a day.  And then?  Had our brothers been stopped?  Accused?  Imprisoned?

Surely Calius would be sent to us with word if such a thing had come to pass.

Still…

“Perhaps inquiries toward events in Pompeii might be made as well,” I mused and was gratified to watch a measure of tension ease from Agron’s shoulders.

He smiled his relief at me.

With a nod and a friendly bump of my elbow against his, I returned to infirmary.

Oenomaus insisted on feeding himself, though I was required to hold his arm steady and bowl at accommodating angle in order for him to finish his allotment of gruel.  His exhaustion following endeavor was certainly not feigned and I quietly turned to my own meal as he slept, awaiting return of Medicus.

When the man reclaimed his territory, he snarled at me to get out and then proceeded to inspect the placement of each and every herb pot.  Clearly, he suspected me of passing the time by rearranging them for my own amusement.

Hm.  Perhaps at next opportunity I would.

Bowls and spoons washed, I sought Santos for an accounting of food and supplies.  Crixus and Gannicus had returned and were butchering a boar in the shade.  Answering my wave, Agron detoured to inquire if Crixus would join our meeting.  Unsurprisingly, he declined.  His eyes followed Naevia as she passed me on her way to infirmary to assist Medicus, her arms cradling a jug of warmed water for bathing Oenomaus.

Duro swung brazenly down from the nearly-finished temple roof to grapple me into a choke hold.

“Ugh!” I objected, endeavoring to hold breath and wedge arms between my face and his sweat-and-dust-layered form.  “Where are the Romans?  One whiff of you would fell them all.”

He bellowed a laugh right in my ear.  “You complain like a fucking Roman woman!”

Smirking, goat-loving oaf!  I grabbed for his arms, crouched down, and heaved him over my back, toppling his stinking body onto a stack of pallets.

“What--fucking--fuck!”

Agron laughed, jogging up the temple steps to join us.  Santos had, prudently, kept out of range of flailing limbs.

I quirked my brows at my young German brother as he gained his feet with gangly lack of grace.

I told him, “I readily provide reminder that I do not fight like one.”

Agron ruffled Duro’s hair -- earning a scowl and impatient swat -- before turning and pressing a kiss to the center of my forehead.  I allowed the latter with dignity, of course.

There would be little dignity in the procurement of supplies.  Diminishing quantities of grain and oil would require much effort: risk of discovery, careful identification of the specific wagons sought, and swift attack.  Followed by death and disposal of drivers and guards.  There was very little dignity to be found in the rending of flesh and splatter of blood.

But.  We were at war with Rome.  What must be done _****must****_  be done.

Three teams, each including three former gladiators, a shepherd, and a former house slave familiar with the wagons and insignia of Campania’s foodstuff and textile purveyors, were dispatched in differing directions.  Yes, a combined effort in taking supply wagons along the road at points distant from current location would be efficacious indeed.

Call to midday meal saw the yard emptied and I found myself answering Agron’s beaming smile with a playful glare.  I grabbed a spear.  He unsheathed gladius.  For a time, the sand was all ours.  We fought each other until sweat dewed upon skin and then a look -- a moment of silent communication -- saw us turn combined efforts upon the yard’s makeshift palus, fighting as we had in the arena.  Spear reaching distant target as I rolled and crouched beneath Agron’s swinging arm, sword slicing through the air with accuracy to cleave a man’s head from neck.  And then, as breath began to shorten, I dared to somersault beneath his guard, thread shaft of spear between his knees, and yank him flat on his back.

“Ha!” I hissed, pouncing onto his chest, spear shaft slapping his sword flat against the dust above his head.  He did not release his grasp upon pommel, allowing me to pin him.  Perhaps because he felt confident enough in the ability of one bare hand to see himself freed.

I squeezed his torso between my thighs and waited for his response.

He grinned as if enchanted at finding himself my captive and reached up to trace my victorious snarl with edge of grimy thumb.  I snapped at the appendage and he chuckled, bouncing me, which only aggravated me further and made him laugh harder.

“Counter,” I ordered him.  I was ready.

He shook his head.  “I am spent.”

I snorted.  “Then I had best permit you food and rest.”

He chuckled.  “Gratitude.”

I rolled my eyes and climbed off of him, holding out an arm for him to take.  I half expected him to tumble me to the ground, but he did not take advantage.  As I dug in my heels, he levered himself upright.

“You allow me to best you in plain view of all,” I murmured, puzzled.

He blinked at me.  Smirked.  “I allow no such thing.”  He leaned down and breathed against my lips.  “It is you who take.”

And by the sparkle in his eyes, he’d enjoyed it.  I grinned.  Kissed him greedily.  Shooed him toward the cook pot to claim our portions.  We were the last, but our exercise seemed to have provided some amusement for weary workers.  Yes, they had undoubtedly enjoyed seeing their taskmaster tumbled and pinned, covered in dust and late to take meal.

“Is it over?” Duro teased, one hand covering his eyes though it was obvious he peeked out from between his fingers.  “Such a brutal assault and defeat.  Why no brother of mine would stand for--”

I kicked him lightly in the hip before taking a seat.  “You missed the sight of Agron laid out upon ground?”

“I blinked,” he admitted ruefully.

Agron leaned down and flicked his ear.  “Such has been Duro’s position many times at the conclusion of our matches.  He cannot abide reminder.”

“Shall I remind you to keep fucking feet, brother?”

“Eat,” I ordered, jabbing them each with an elbow.  “And rest.  Lest you vomit at first blow and earn a thrashing from Euclid.”

Duro shuddered.

Agron hung his head, grinning.  “Such a threat would give even Jupiter pause.”

I shook my head over the fact that these two stubborn German brothers heeded my command at all.  Especially considering the concern we three held for Spartacus and his venture in Pompeii.  Really, I ought to permit my brothers to wrestle, to battle out some of their silent fears.  Yet they refrained, subsiding not with resentment but genuine calm.

What could possibly see such results?

At Duro’s playful grin and the warm brush of Agron’s arm against mine, I thought perhaps it could be the bond that the three of us shared.  Shared worry for distant friends.  Shared affection for one another.

Oddly enough, it was this thought in conjunction with the motion of Agron’s arm as he lifted both bowl and spoon to lips that reminded me of his bracers and the items he likely had tucked beneath them.  As I had laid eyes upon neither the ludus key nor brass pen scattered among his possessions, I could only assume that he yet carried them in the cloth wrapped around his forearms.  Truly, the man needed to set the items aside.  For the sake of comfort at the very least.  Perhaps I could persuade him to exchange them for another item of sentimental worth.

But what could I offer?

I thought of the needles and thread that were carefully guarded by Camilla.  My skill in that regard extended solely to minor clothing alteration; I had spent the majority of my time learning letters and numbers, directing tasks and reckoning accounts.  I had been taught only enough of household chores to appreciate the work and expense required to manage them.

Seeking inspiration, I scanned the men and women who had joined Spartacus’ cause.  A thought sparked from the most unlikely source.

I made hasty approach following midday meal as he returned his bowl for washing.  His brows raised in surprise at my request to break words, but he accommodatingly halted.  Listened.  Laughed at my request.  I cautioned myself against taking offense.

“You would learn how to tan a hide?”  He nodded toward the rack upon which the boar skin rested.

“Yes,” I confirmed.  “And I would offer trade for a length of cord.”

“And what do you have in your possession to trade?”

Considering both who this man was and what I had heard him request -- the _****only****_  item I had ever heard him give voice to desiring -- I ruefully replied, “I have no wine, but perhaps my knowledge of letters and numbers would be of use?”

Gannicus smirked.  “You do not offer yourself as sparring partner?”

“Would I not further owe you for that privilege?”

He chuckled.  Glanced toward the hide.  Mirth faded into a thoughtful frown.  “I will give instruction and your hands will do the work.”

I squinted at him.  “You will give sufficient instruction and in exchange my hands will do the work _****and****_  I will claim two arms’ span of leather cord.”

“A heartless bargain,” the Celt merrily assessed, “but as it will not be my hands mashing boar brains and working the skin, so be it.”

So be it, indeed.  I wrinkled my nose at the texture of the concoction Gannicus taught me to make and attempted to turn my nose into welcome fresh breeze at the smell.  Long before he’d finished unlacing the fleshed and washed pelt from its sturdy wooden frame, I’d had my fill of his unending amusement.  But as I engaged in this task for another’s sake, I persevered.

“I stand impressed,” Gannicus remarked as I massaged the slimy paste into both sides of the hide.  “You vomit neither bile nor complaints.”

“You’ve not made acquaintance with many house slaves then,” I retorted shortly.  “The gore and filth seen within a domus far exceeds that witnessed in the arena.”

“And you survived both.”

I looked up at his indulgent tone and quirked a brow.  “Have you crossed paths with another who could claim the same?”

He shook his head, lips twitching with fast-fading humor.  “To my knowledge, I have not.”

I suddenly understood why the Celt seemed so fond of his own laughter -- the silence that fell in the wake of his somber words held the power to unsettle.  Seeking distraction, my gaze landed upon his leather necklace.  “I would present a second bargain.”

“Greedy, eh?” Gannicus jested.  “What more could you desire of me?”

I snorted at his suggestive drawl.  “An honest account of the adornment worn about neck.  Was it a gift?”

“No.  It was not.”

The speed with which this man swung between bright mirth and dark pondering was unmatched by even whip’s crack.  “Made by whose hands?”

“My own.”

“I hold no skill in leather work.  I would request additional instruction in fashioning a thing similar.”

He chuckled, but the sound held no joy.  “By necessity it must carry only vague resemblance, unless you would name your kills to equal each of mine.”

My gaze once more lowered to the leather thong and its knotted, dangling tendrils.  Each held a different number of discolored and scratched bone beads.  “You crafted an accounting of your dead.”

“You still wish for my instruction?”

“I do, but I would not require it for the same purpose.”

“You have no dead?” he challenged.

I corrected: “I have not their names.”

The arena executioners.  The Roman soldiers of both the burning arena and the city of Atella.  The seven slavers.  The murmillo.  I could fill a necklace of death from those alone, but I possessed not a single name among them.  Not even Numerius or Marius had breathed their last at my hands.  I could only claim the deaths of the six guards I had killed for sole purpose of capturing my former dominus, but the thought of carrying their names against my skin caused bile to climb my throat.  The only names I would wish so close to my life’s breath would be Hamilcar’s, Pyrrhus’, and Varro’s.  Men I had not killed, no -- friends I had failed to save.

Gannicus shifted, drawing his deflated pack from over his shoulder and reaching within it to remove a short, wooden sword.  A rudis.  “I will show you how to craft a leather necklace for whatever purpose you seek.  In exchange, I would have you read a thing aloud to me and show me its words.”

“The etchings upon your rudis?”

One side of the man’s mouth lifted.  “I would reckon my accounting to match Rome’s.”

“An impossible task,” I replied, “as they are the ones that ought to be held accountable for a man’s dearest losses.”

The Celt’s jaw clenched.  His eyes narrowed upon distant memory and fingers tensed around the battered wooden replica of a sword.  “You speak truth,” he bit out and then forced a grin.  “But if you hold no desire to lend voice to the story of my exploits, you need only say the word.”

“My voice is yours,” I bargained, “for learning the words carved thereupon.”

“I thought it might be,” he cheekily retorted, “for the chance to lay hands and eyes upon something so rare.”

I scoffed.  “It is not the only one I have seen.”

He guffawed.  “And one is much like any other?”

I sputtered a laugh.  “Do we speak of rudis alone or other things resembling its manner in shape?”

Thanks to the love of my Germans, I did not flinch when Gannicus’ hand smacked against the center of my back.  “Ah-ha!  You are as crass as those Germans that claim you as kin.”

“Would they have boasted of our brotherhood otherwise?”

Again, his laughter rolled across the yard.  “’Brotherhood’ was not the sentiment I heard tell of.”

“You gossip as an old woman.”

“Oh-ho!  For that I would meet you on the sands.  Wash hands and choose weapon!”

Gannicus laughed his way through our bout, supplying occasional instruction with insufferable smugness each time my knees or back hit the ground.  I toppled him only once to which he dared me to cast spear aside and produce the same results with bare hands.

I twirled my weapon in reply and tightened grip.

I accepted defeat more than eight times, but found myself grinning widely when Gannicus called a halt.  The man knew nothing of my recent wounds and, thus, had not halved his efforts.  It was gratifying to face an opponent who held no concern for aggravating my injuries.

He offered his arm happily and complimented my skill: “You are a student of Oenomaus.”

“And you his brother.”

His smile dimmed beneath the shadow of dark thoughts.  “I one day hope to be again counted as such, yes.”  The bright grin returned and his hand clapped my shoulder.  “Come!  As terms of your defeat, you will work the hide once more and then we shall set it to smoke.”

That evening, after I collapsed upon the temple steps beside Agron and Duro with hands scrubbed refreshingly clean of mashed boar brain and meal bowl in grasp, my Germans gave me expectant looks.

Swallowing my first bite, I needled them: “After witnessing how bravely I stood against Gannicus, you both fear me more than ever before.”

Duro snorted.

Agron scowled, but said nothing.  He poked at his meal until Duro sighed, slurped the remainder of his stew, and grumbled, “Cease fucking silence, you jealous goat.”

With that, Duro stood.  Sent me a pointed look and sharp nod toward Agron’s bowed head.

I frowned.

Duro thrust an accusing finger at me as he strolled past.

Agron huffed.  Looked away.

Duro hollered German words back over his shoulder.  In response to which, Agron’s chin jerked and shoulders flexed.

I glared at my portion, confused.  I disliked the sensation.

“This morning,” Agron bit out angrily, “you told that you would sit with me.  Had you a moment.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Drawing a deep breath, I set my unfinished food aside and reached for Agron’s arm.  He jerked subtly, turning to study my expression with puzzlement as I worked to loosen his bracer.  He placed his own bowl and spoon aside to give me complete freedom in removing both it and the cloth wrapping beneath.  As I unwound the sweat-dampened fabric, the brass pen slid easily into my palm.

I brushed the tip of my thumb along its length as my fingers curled around Agron’s warm skin, tracing the slight impression and green discoloration left by the writing implement.  I had hoped the necklace would be a pleasant surprise, but perhaps I was mistaken to leave Agron in ignorance of my intent.  At the very least, he deserved to know why I had so quickly abandoned his side following midday meal in order to seek the company of Gannicus.

“I pursue two goals this day,” I murmured, now massaging the slender indentation upon his arm.  “I would learn to tan a hide--”

“A skill either Duro or myself would happily teach.”

He spoke truth.  I could only endeavor to explain: “But the pelt available belongs to Gannicus, and in my enthusiasm, I did not wish to wait.”

“Wait?  For what?”

“To replace items of sentiment with one that does not force your flesh to suffer discomfort.”  I glanced up as I reached for his other arm, gauging his reaction.

Agron allowed me to maneuver him closer as a slow smile stretched his lips and eyes sparkled with delight.  “You would craft a thing for me?  From your own hands?”

“I would,” I assured him with a quick glance, “but I lack skill in endeavor.  Hence the day’s second goal and my request for assistance that keeps me from your side.”

He breathed out a chuckle, relieved and amazed.  “I am a jealous goat,” he easily admitted, tucking chin to chest and gazing at me through brows tilted in rueful remorse.

“So long as you do not grow a beard, no one will know of it but me.”

Agron giggled soft and low, sending flashes of heat racing over my skin.

I cleared my throat and spoke quickly, “Apologies for avoidable misunderstanding.”

My lover brushed a tendril of hair over my shoulder.  “You act from heart.  No apologies, Nasir.”  His thumb traced my smile.  “None at all.”

I tilted my chin up in silent demand for a kiss.  He complied and my hands stilled their work upon his other bracer as our lips met.  Warm and chaste.  Too brief.  I would have more.

Later.

Leaning back before I disregarded our audience completely, I turned attention to sliding the thick leather guard free from his arm, unwinding the makeshift padding, and tutting at the angry welt left in the wake of ludus key.

“For what purpose do you allow this torment, Agron?” I scolded quietly.  I would have none overhear these words.

He angled his lips toward my ear.  “They serve as reminder of your determination to return to my arms.”

Our gazes met.  I swallowed.  “I would not have you feel pain in exchange for joy.”

“One cannot be felt without the other.”

“Then I would lessen the first until it is merely an echo overwhelmed by the latter.”

Agron’s grin widened into a deep belly laugh.  “Fuck, we speak as poets.”

I exhaled a breath of merriment.  “Duro would gag.”

“Fortunate for him, he is not present.”

“Fortunate for us, we hold a place he would not dare cause disruption.”

Agron bit his lip and I gritted my teeth against sudden desire.  Fuck.   _ ** **Later****_  would come far sooner than I had initially expected.  We hurriedly downed our cold stew and withdrew indoors.  Agron followed my guiding hand down onto the pallet to crouch over me, prepare me, fill me.

I gasped into his mouth, nodding with approval at the slow push of cock pressing and rubbing against my pleasure as his hips lazily rocked into mine.  Panting against his collarbone and clenching jaw and damp lips as the sound of my name was squeezed from his throat between deep, desperate breaths and roll of hips.

The hot friction of beard stubble and wet, messy kisses upon my neck as my fingers tugged through his short, fine hair.

The maddening slide of my cock against his belly, my balls against his groin, my thighs against his hips.

Rough fingertips feathered over my cheek in tender succession -- one, two, three, four, and thumb made five -- and I opened eyes to him, opened my heart.

Spine and neck arching in surrender on a soft moan.  A hand cupping my hip, fingers curling briefly as he shuddered, rhythm faltering and his chest swelling with indrawn breath.  A moment’s pause to gather sense and burn through sudden waves of heat and instinct.

“Agron,” I called softly, nails scraping over his nape.  “I would have you wild.”

His eyes squeezed shut, jaw dropping helplessly.  “You shall.”  Gritting his teeth, my lover’s eyelashes fluttered, lifted, revealed eyes made black with desire.  “Patience will not be unrewarded.”

He spoke truth, though I was a breath away from madness by the time his body’s leisurely massage of my form -- within and without -- melted into mindless rutting.  Hot, salty flesh against my tongue, caught between my teeth.  Inarticulate hisses against his jaw and ear.  Palms curving against ribs and ass.  Fingers curling, clenching.  He panted-gasped-whimpered against my neck, his release wringing him of sense.  His touch upon my leaking cock rubbed musk in tight circles, painting a destination for the release that was roaring inward from my fingertips and toes, tightening belly, searing along my cock and outward--

Time stopped.

The world engulfed in light.

My being falling into darkness.

A soft sound, a catch of breath -- “Ah, Nasir!” -- called me back, tethered me to my next heartbeat.

I yet lived.  Opened eyes.  Wound arms tightly around the shuddering shoulders of the man draped over me, both of us shivering in the wake of release.  His weight heavy and warm and needful in a way I had never needed anything before.  When he made shaky effort to tuck his elbows in and prepare to shift away, I held on tighter.

“Remain in my arms,” I commanded breathlessly.

He nodded.  Surrendered.  Rasped, “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gannicus wears two different necklaces in the series (that I’ve noticed). There’s a Celtic dragon/lion choker that he wears in Gods of the Arena and a rustic (perhaps handmade) leather necklace that he wears during Vengeance.
> 
> Regarding the rudis, let’s assume Gannicus did NOT drop it in the arena during the execution/primus.
> 
> Also, I cannot recall if Gannicus is literate in Latin. He's definitely functional in the culture, but I like imagining that Nasir's education could be a bartering item... especially if the Latin carved on a rudis is either ceremonial/formal or just plain hard to read for anyone who isn't as familiar with the written language as Nasir is.
> 
> How to brain-tan furs: http://www.braintan.com/articles/furs/george1.html
> 
> When Nasir comments on the fact that Rome has taken things that are not recorded on a rudis, Gannicus is thinking about his friendship with Oenomaus and Melitta and how all that shit went down. A little more on this in the next chapter. (But only a little bit because, y’know, this is Nasir’s POV ‘n’ all and this is none of his business.)
> 
> Agron isn’t jealous because he thinks Nasir is interested in Gannicus sexually (or Gannicus is interested in Nasir). This is a more general jealousy. Agron is aware that they don’t have much time before Glaber figures out where they are and attacks, so he wants to spend every spare moment he has with Duro and Nasir. Agron would have probably reacted the same if Nasir had spent the afternoon with anyone else. (Though, yeah, the fact that Gannicus is this charming “god of the arena” who is way better at making friends and being a fun guy than Agron is likely factors in a bit.)
> 
> The pose Nasir and Agron are in when Nasir removes his bracers is inspired by a couple of moments in “Things Under Your Skin” by peloquine on AO3.


	7. Older Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: gore (butchering meat)
> 
> NOTE:  
> Both Lucius (the crotchety Roman) AND Liscus (the shit-stirring Gaul) appear in this chapter and my eyes often confuse their names, so just in case you experience the same issue, I figure it's a good idea to give a head's up.  
> \+ Lucius the Roman appears in the first part of the chapter.  
> \+ Liscus the Gaul appears in the middle and latter sections.

Trust.  

It slowly bled out of me as I watched the treeline day by day and listened for any indication of Spartacus’ return.  I sought distraction with training, with necklace-making, with gift-giving -- and regarding the latter, Agron’s beaming smile cleared my thoughts of worry for the better part of an entire day.

I welcomed purpose and activity: assessment of inventory, tunnel construction, and visits paid to Medicus.

The bandage upon my arm remained, as did the poultice beneath it, due to minor irritation.

“How many times must I repeat myself to you moronic shits?” Medicus sniped.  “Sweat and sand from training will cause spoilage of fucking wound!”

My brows arched.  “This is the first occasion I’ve heard of it.”

“Due to removal of head from ass so that your gladiator may fuck you properly.”

“Apologies for stirring envy.”

The man’s glare could wither the hardiest flora to limp compost.

I experienced no eagerness at the thought of reentering his domain, but resigned myself to task after the following morning’s chores were complete.  Catching Agron in a moment between training matches, I tangled my fingers in the dangling cords of the leather necklace now adorning neck and chest.  He grinned in anticipation of gentle tug and silent request for his lips upon mine.  Our smiles slid against each other’s before melting softly.

By the gods, crafting the thing for him had been one of the most rewarding results my hands had produced in memory.  In weaving it, I had somehow woven the two of us closer.

Although… the fact that Spartacus’ fate remained unknown was a force in itself, pushing us together for stability.  As much as I wished for the man’s safe return, I dreaded what it would require of us: once more we would cast gaze beyond the boundaries of safe haven and look toward the coming conflict with Glaber.  We had sworn an oath at Spartacus’ departure to make the temple defenses ready -- which they were.  I myself participated in scouting rotation, lookout duty, and drills.  Still, the freedom to spar whenever I liked and speak with whomever I wished and touch Agron as often as desire presented… I was not keen to turn focus away from this fragile moment of peace.

Sighing, I parted ways from my lover with a playful pat to his hip.  There was always much to do.  More so now as venture to Neapolis loomed.  In two days’ time, we would return to the city and make attempt to free a ship full of captured German warriors.  I would not allow fucking wound to prevent me from claiming my place beside my brothers.

I jogged up temple steps, noting Naevia’s presence in the yard, yet again receiving instruction from Crixus.  I would face Medicus alone, it seemed.  Unless Oenomaus was awake and dared to do more than track our banter with a wry smirk.

Turning at corridor’s bend, I began approach to the infirmary only to gradually realize that I could hear the sound of a voice ahead increasing in volume with each step taken.

“...only speak the truth,” Gannicus confessed quietly, baldly.  His heart was in his voice and I hesitated, intending to turn back.  “And it is as Nasir said -- the loss of our honor, our friendship, and your wife -- Romans will never be held accountable for their hand in it.”

“The Romans who did now lie dead,” Oenomaus pointed out tersely.

A harsh chuckle.  Gannicus drew breath and spoke, “And your grievances avenged?  I envy you, brother.”

“For what purpose would _****you****_  seek vengeance?”

“For all the misery Rome will cause if I do not.”

“Finally you decide to stop running.”

“And you declare intent to start.  Fair enough.  At least your tongue will be glad of the wine.”  If gaity could stand as weapon, then Gannicus’ humor was impenetrable shield.

Oenomaus doubted: “You will stay _****here****_  and fight?”

“I can think of no better company to keep.  Can you?”

A long pause and then, surprisingly, a speculative tone: “How many times did Nasir send you to the sand?”

“Ha!  Only once.  Perhaps it has been too long since you gave instruction, eh, old man?”

I shrank back in silence, departing from what was clearly a private conversation--

And slammed into a form at my back.

I turned, hands reaching out to steady us both--

“Medicus must be entertaining a foul mood if even you hesitate to breach his domain,” Lucius noted with a quirk of brow.

Snorting once in agreement, I revealed, “I do not believe he is present in infirmary.”

“Then offer assistance and conversation until his return.”

Acquiescence led me to the pasture beyond gate where stolen horses were tethered and chomping industriously through grassy offerings under Libo’s watchful gaze.  Moving the animals three at a time was swiftly accomplished; the horses required no convincing to relocate to untouched land.  Perhaps they realized that if work were required of them, they would be retrieved singly or in pairs.

When I remarked upon this to Libo, I earned a knowing wink.  Lucius was reminded of and readily spoke on how horses were trained for Roman cavalry and I found myself arguing the accuracy of various historical accounts of past battles.

Libo shushed us when our impassioned voices bordered on disruptive.

“Libo, guardian of peaceful fields,” I jested.

“A title I would offer no objection to in this life or the next.”

Lucius grumbled, “Whereas I would claim duty as executioner of overreaching nobles.”

“A wise choice,” I approved, “including your weapon of bow and arrow.  To provide -- at distance -- fullest view of satisfying results.”

The old Roman cackled.

Libo shook his wind-whipped head.  “The way to your Agron’s heart is through bloodshed, is it not?”

It had not been.  Not at all.  I had led with a smile and followed through with courage and resolve.  But that knowledge was not for anyone other than the two of us.  I offered gamely retort: “If you seek his favor, such effort may gain his attention.”

Libo’s jaw dropped in playful affront.

Lucius offered additional suggestion: “And grow your hair before attempting to replace Nasir.  With a spear in hand, the lummox may not even notice the difference.”

I bit back a guffaw.  “A risky venture nonetheless.  I would advise turning gaze and intent toward Duro.  His pallet now holds only one.”

“Do you hear the shit these two spew at me?” Libo softly inquired of his equine charge.  “For what purpose would any man or beast call them friend?”

“By those criteria, where does that leave Agron?” Lucius challenged me.

“As a god,” I quipped.

Lucius grimaced.  “Pluto take me.  I pray my spirit goes where the oaf cannot tread.”

My shoulders shook with silent laughter and I stumbled upon a clump of weeds.  The horse I led startled sideways, pulling rope taut.  “You will leave Agron to me, Roman,” I insisted.  “And I suppose I will accept charge of Duro as well.  As the two of you--”  I included Libo in accusation.  “--are so woefully underprepared to manage them.”

Lucius snorted rudely, his lips twitching with humor.

Libo shook his head.  “The day I witness the three of you in battle, I shall count myself one of the few living men to lay eyes upon Cerberus.”

Cerberus, the three-headed dog which stood at the gates of hell.  I could find nothing in the comparison to which I longed to object.

As I returned to temple yard and parted ways from Lucius, I thought back to the destruction of the arena of Capua and Agron’s efforts at my side.  We had fought in close quarters.  Tandem movements.  Felling all enemies.  I recalled our performance at palus a week and some days earlier.  I wondered if Duro would lend skill next time.  Could we fight -- the three of us -- in unified purpose, hands and weapons seamlessly executing deadly intent?

It would require much practice, a keen sense of surroundings, and trust.

Yes, _****trust.****_

“How much longer until these fucking Germans take their leave and we can get on with pounding Rome to dust?”

I paused, foot upon lowest step, and turned.

Liscus, that shit-spewing fuck, smirked at me from among a crowd of his brothers no more than two paces away.  My gaze swept the yard until I found Crixus instructing Vitus and Lysandros at yard’s end opposite.

I turned to meet the challenge unaided.

“Your meaning, Gaul?” I retorted sharply, leaving the steps entirely.

He shrugged.  “Plan is obvious to even a babe: they send Donar to accompany house slaves eager and able to betray Spartacus to Glaber, collect reward, and then the lot of them intend to flee with tail between legs back to Germania.”

Fury roared through my veins.  “Your reasoning for uttering such fucking filth?” I bit out.

“A Syrian who requires even plainer words!” Mannus chortled.

Liscus’ chin jerked with mirth.  “Agron’s fucked the Roman schooling out of you, little man?”

I was rendered mute with rage.

Rhaskos laughed.  “And fucked a bit of fight into him, eh?”

Under other circumstances, I would have accused the simple shit of envy.  But I held no quarrel with Rhaskos, not as I did with Liscus and Mannus.

I snarled, “State fucking grievance and let us see if assumption holds truth.”

Liscus chuckled, glanced toward Mannus and Rhaskos, and then approaching on a swagger, he accused: “Here you, Agron, and Duro stand -- such loyal friends of Spartacus -- while the man himself sets foot in Roman streets.  Were Crixus assigned the same errand, _****all****_  of his men would be at his side.”

Only because they held the foresight of a gnat.

Leaning back, Liscus asked Mannus, “But what more can be expected, eh?  Loyalty is too much to ask of a German -- with but a sneeze he forgets how to find his own cock!”

The hiss of steel.

The sneer dropped from Liscus’ face.  He reached for his sword before I realized that I had already drawn mine.

Well, so fucking be it.  It was long past time for me to answer the shit’s challenges.  If the bite of a blade was the only means of strength he would accept, then let us take fucking measure.

_****Clang!** ** _

Predictable opening volley.  I crouched and spun, kicking a leg out from under him and stirring up dust.

A bitten off curse.

I ducked beneath a glimmer of steel.

Shot forward -- flat of blade smacking across the Gaul’s belly--

“Ha!” I crowed--

Stumbled back, jaw smarting-stinging from landed hit.  A fucking elbow jab.

I would answer it in kind--

Liscus lunged.

I dodged, brought blade down upon his sword-- _ ** **Clang!****_ \--trapping it low.  A fist to the man’s nose.

A knee to my gut.

Knocked back, rolling in the dirt, gaining feet and sweeping aside the Gaul’s next attack.  Spinning in close--

Crouching--

Arm around thigh--

Lifting up, throwing thrashing Gaul over my back, tumbling him to dirt--

My blade descending to his throat--

His blade rising to meet mine--

_****Clang!** ** _

“FUCKING CEASE!”

I jolted at Agron’s bellow and, at the same instant, a long arm snaked around my waist from behind, hauling me back as Crixus shot forward to step on Liscus’ sword arm, pinning him to ground.

Snarling, I twisted against the force pulling me away.  Teeth bared, right arm tugging uselessly at the grasp upon wrist and forearm.

I was not yet done with that fucking Gaul!

“NASIR!”

Agron ducked under my raised sword, the grip on my wrist shifting.  He held my arm from front… which meant the arm spanning my waist from behind belonged to Duro.

“Nasir!” my lover called again, but I refused to look away from that fucking Gaul lest he escape Crixus and attempt to put sword through Agron’s back--

“Nasir, cease.  Cease!”

A rough, warm hand upon my face.  A brow tilting against mine.  My world narrowed to eyes the color of olive leaves.  How did Agron’s eyes possess such incredible ability to change colors?

I drew a deep breath.  Released the grimace from my face.  Allowed the sounds of excited and fearful murmurings to wash over me.  My anger, though, I did not loosen from grasp.

Agron must have deemed me sufficiently calm.  He spun aside as Crixus allowed Liscus to gain feet and it was only Duro’s arm yet anchoring me to his form that kept me from lunging at that smug fuck’s shit-licking smile.

“Dare to look my way again and I will see you dead!” I hissed.

He jeered: “But not by your own hand -- _****little man.”****_

“Nasir!” Agron jostled my face in his palm, opposite arm and both shoulders straining against sudden leverage found when I--

“Goatfuck!” Duro yelped as my heels connected with his shins, scraping down, thighs straining.

“Liscus, you witless shit,” Crixus snarled, cuffing the man in full view of all.  The sight of my opponent being roughly handled by his sworn ally was as a pile of sand shoved against my inferno of rage: banked, for the moment.  Yet smoldering.

Crixus barked: “What is gained by provoking a brother?  Stand you so idle, I would see you put to fucking task!”

My jaw ached; bared teeth clamped hard.  I would dare the man to speak fucking insults again, but were I to allow any part of my body to unlock, I would surely combust into pieces.

Crixus ordered Fortis and Litaviccus to take Liscus out to hunt and scout and return only after their charge regained fucking sense.

Once they had moved out of sight beyond temple gate Agron and Duro released me from grasp, but not from their presence.

As Crixus turned to Rhaskos and Mannus -- “Break fucking words.  Now!” -- my brothers herded me up temple steps and into the tiny room Agron and I shared.  It became exceptionally small with Duro’s bulk added in.

“Nasir,” my lover whispered, urgent and urging.  “Speak.”

“Liscus…” I began, paused, forcibly drew deep breath.  “Fucking Gaul.  Says we betray Spartacus with Donar’s aid -- the hands of my friends, Chadara and Calius, sent to claim Glaber’s reward.”

Duro roared: “That fucking goat cunt!”

Agron’s arm shot past my shoulder.  The smack of flesh-upon-flesh and a solid _****thump!****_  -- Agron shoving his brother against nearest wall to stall his irate charge toward temple yard.

“Liscus is a moronic shit,” Agron replied, “whose only enjoyment in life is to sour another’s.  This stands not as a surprise.”

He spoke truth.  And by Duro’s frustrated huff, he agreed that very little aside from blatant lies could be expected from the mouth of that fucking Gaul.

However--  “I’ll not smile and bid cheerful fucking ‘good day’ to anyone who spits upon the honor of my brothers!”

“A fact you well demonstrated to us long ago,” Duro happily and pridefully reminded, “against that treacherous fuck Ashur.”

Ashur.  Yes, I had defended my brothers against him once, but not the second time.  The second time, I had pulled Tiberius close, ceded to his stoic mask.

I had not called upon Tiberius today.  I had not even considered summoning him.  Because I’d had no need of his guidance or because I had been unable to do so?

What meaning did that hold?

Was Tiberius lost to me or had insults spoken from a man marked as one of the Brotherhood dashed my senses to the four directions?  Or perhaps the presence of wide-eyed audience was to blame?

“Fuck,” I said for lack of other words to break.

Duro laughed.  “If that is a warning of intention, then I take my leave!”

“Do not,” Agron commanded, “engage Crixus’ men.”

Duro scoffed.  “I would seek a worthy challenge.”

Agron gave his blessing with a roll of his eyes.  Duro left.  I faced my lover in silence, honestly incapable of gathering words to give voice.

Slowly, Agron placed both hands upon my shoulders.  He queried in a tone that was almost gentle, “The meaning of insults spoken held no sway?”

I gaped.  “How are you not angered by them?”  I had thought Agron’s temper the most volatile.

His jaw clenched.  Nostrils flared.

Ah.  So he was angry.

“There is little that fucking Gaul could say that I would heed.”

I opened my mouth to agree.  Closed it.

Agron was not fooled.  Of course not.  Should the man who voiced accusation not be worthy of response, then his words must have been.

Frowning, Agron hunched down to meet my gaze.  Solemn and level.  He did not ask if I believed he would betray Spartacus.  Nor did he ask if I believed he sought Glaber’s reward.  He cut through to the heart of both accusations: “Do I seek position?”

I answered truthfully, “Most would say yes.”

He stiffened and I suddenly understood why I had been so angered; the desire for glory was not the same as the ability to betray.

My smile grew with confidence.  “But Duro and I -- and Spartacus -- know the matter goes beyond simple ambition.”  Caressing his stubbled cheeks, I informed with a proud grin: “Duro once spoke of your nature -- you _****are****_  an older brother.  Now you stand as such to all who reside here.  All are under your care and watchful eye.”

Liscus’ words had angered me because he did not see this.  He did not see all that Agron had thus far and might one day sacrifice for the sake of the greater good.  For the sake of us all.  Personal opinions and differences aside, Liscus ought to respect that.  By his own words and foolish thoughts, he did not.

A long breath eased out from between Agron’s parted lips.  “There were days I could barely keep Duro alive.  How will I not fail so many?”

Suddenly, it was I upon whom he leaned.  I stood tall.  “Your brother and your allies will lend aid.”

Agron’s fingertips traced the line of my neck, ears, jaw.  “And my lover?”

“Stands with you,” I vowed, “as ever.”

I was still standing with him when Spartacus walked through temple gates at dusk of the same day, exhausted but beaming an encouraging smile.  Every man who had donned soldier’s uniform  committed to venture yet accompanied him.  I saw no wounds.  Only weary grins of accomplishment.

“Aurelia?” Duro asked softly.  “Chadara and Donar?  Calius and Camilla?”

Spartacus nodded.  “Now reside in the domus of Marius in Pompeii.”

I exhaled the breath I’d been holding, the tight grip upon my heart easing though I was not fooled into believing it incapable of clenching hard within chest at a moment’s notice.

“What of your charge?” Agron desired to know and a private conference was called.

“The ludus slaves of Pompeii are with us,” Spartacus reported quietly to Crixus, my German brothers, and myself, “and will present opportunity for Pompeii’s gladiators to rise up as we once did.  Should none appear promising, we return to lend aid.  Now -- let us turn attention to Neapolis and the ship that awaits liberation.”

“Not before you have taken well-earned rest,” Mira insisted, tugging Spartacus toward their bed.

I wrapped an arm around Agron’s waist.  Spartacus was back.  Our brothers all in possession of life and health.  If this stood a trick or amusement of the gods, so be it.  For now, I would allow myself relief and joy in significant measures.

And also confrontation.  When the hunting party returned with a goat to be butchered, I fetched the basin.  I did not voice offer of aid, merely took the place beside Liscus and grasped the limbs of the animal, positioning it to be slit open by his blade.

I did not mention Spartacus’ return.

He did not offer apology for traitorous assumptions.

I considered making accusations, posing questions, and foisting harsh criticism.  Instead, I informed the frustrating shit, “You waste effort.”

Liscus grinned at my forfeiture in our battle of silence.  “Do you challenge me?”

“I remind you,” I replied in clipped tone.  “If it is a quarrel you seek, you needn’t go to such elaborate lengths.”

He glared at the entrails yanked from the belly of his kill.  Glancing up, he hesitated.  I followed his gaze to Agron’s frown.  I shook my head, but Agron merely crossed his arms.  He would give us distance, but he would supervise.  Fucking German-in-command.

I said lightly, “Had you but called me ‘little man,’ I would have gladly laid you flat upon ground.”

Liscus snorted.  Shaking his head, he replied, “Soon Agron and Duro will have dozens of wild Germans to manage.”  He met my gaze and acknowledged, “You will stand with them as often as required.”

The Gaul’s reasoning struck me like a slap to face.  “Of course.”  I shook my head in disbelief.  “You doubted me capable?”

“There is only one of you.”

“Which stands more than sufficient to task.”

“Now that I’ve seen you fight, yes, I would say it does.”

Eyes narrowed, I hissed: “You have seen me fight in the arena when--”

“This is not the arena.”

Ah.  “You speak truth.”  The men on that in-bound ship had never been gladiators.  Perhaps they had never even been slaves.  They stood free and they would fight when provoked.  They may very well fight to the death over merest hint of slight or insult.  “Yet that does not explain your reason for shouldering task of testing me.”

“I shouldered nothing.  I spoke my mind.”

And I had answered.

“But it does not escape notice that you were absent from the ludus during battle.   _ ** **True****_  battle.”  He shrugged.  “I do not stand alone in doubt.  The men you would fight shoulder to shoulder beside against Glaber’s army hold a right to know you stand capable.”

Liscus looked up and brazenly winked.  At Agron.

I sighed.

Liscus continued, “Those fucking Germans of yours have not provided opportunity to test your mettle.  If Agron thinks claiming you as his boy will keep you clear of harm--”

“I am no one’s _****boy.”****_

Liscus waggled his brows.  “It gladdens heart to hear you give that conceited fuck shit about it.”

I barked out a chuckle.  “How quickly a Gaul’s temper cools.”

“Cast further insult and see it rekindled.”

So I _****had****_  truly angered him.  “Which earlier slight saw satisfactory results?”

“All of them,” he retorted playfully.  “Your tongue stings worse that the whip.”

“Then I shall make attempt not to unravel it carelessly.”

Liscus nodded and motioned for me to lift up a foreleg of the goat for skinning.

That evening I held no qualms accepting a portion of roast meat from Liscus’ kill, savoring it as I sat between my Germans.  Duro winced down at his raw shins.  I considered offering apologies… but no.

Rather than embarrass us both, I merely teased, “Shall I call for Medicus?  He makes a lovely poultice.”

“Close fucking mouth,” Duro muttered with a mock glare.

Agron bumped my elbow with his.  Arching his brows in question, he remarked, “No further blood has been spilled.”

“Nor is it required,” I returned.  “Butchering the goat supplied plenty.”

“I would argue the point,” Duro gritted out, smiling widely -- a show of teeth directed at an oblivious Liscus.

I rolled my eyes.  “You would argue the _****point****_  even should it be clearly _****round.”****_

Agron barked a laugh.

Duro shrugged easily, declining to argue.  For once.

“Contrary, bullheaded puke,” I offhandedly remarked.

Duro hummed a short tune, playing at ignorance.

Agron shook his head in bemused admiration.  Of Duro or me, I was uncertain.  Perhaps the gesture was directed toward himself for somehow tolerating us both.

His foot bumped mine.  “You make friends with the Gauls,” Agron jested.  “A worrisome development.”

I glared at him, lips twitching.  “Then provide me with Germans that I may bring to heel.”

Duro snorted into his bowl.

Grinning, Agron slung an arm over my shoulders and leaned in to nuzzle my ear.  “I shall see it done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope Nasir's confrontation with Liscus was satisfying. I know it's been a long time coming. I promise I didn't forget -- it just never seemed like the Perfect Opportunity... until this chapter happened.
> 
> Also, although Rhaskos is officially allied with Crixus, Liscus, Acer, and Mannus, Rhaskos went with Spartacus, Duro, and Agron to rescue Nasir from execution in the arena. (And Rhaskos would gamble with Varro and he was friendly with Rabanus... so he has a fairly complicated network of allies.) There's a level of respect between Nasir and Rhaskos (which goes back to Nasir's test to enter the brotherhood and the evaluation Rhaskos put him through the next morning). Rhaskos can never have enough cock jokes, though, and he has zero shame for it. (^_~)


	8. A Ship Full of Germans

Rain.

A roaring downpour.

A blessing from the gods despite its cold misery licking across fingers and huffing against nape.  I shivered and the man who crouched beside me upon slippery rooftop chuckled.  “A little wine would see you warm.”

I agreed with a breathy puff of laughter and offered rebuttal to Gannicus’ suggestion, “’A little’ wine -- by your estimation -- would drown the harbor.”

He shook his head, his toothy smile somehow revealed in the pitch darkness of midnight.  “Only the harbor?  My reputation deserves credit for the entire sea, does it not?”

“Are all champions so humble?”

“Eh, one is much like another,” he jested.

A touch to my shoulder: Vitus, who kept watch at my opposite side.  I followed his outstretched arm toward a familiar figure slowly making approach upon the street: Lysandros, his scouting duties completed.  We waited in silence for him to climb up to our wet, chilly perch and give report.

“They now traverse Neapolis wharf,” he breathed.  “One slaver and six guards accompany them to the ship.”

My jaw clenched and I nodded.  With considerable effort, I pushed aside my desire to stand with my brothers in this task.  One slaver and six guards.  Hardly overwhelming odds.  Especially with Spartacus and Duro clinging to the shadows with intent to overtake their quarries from behind.  Still, I was not happy at the thought of Agron and Lucius trapped in ship’s hull.  I considered the captured warriors.  Would they see us as liberators or enemies?

Gannicus knocked his elbow against mine, rainwater sliding off of our cloaks to soak my foot.  He grinned at my scowl.

“Come along, brother,” the Celt encouraged with a playful wiggle of his brows.  “It’s time to wet your blade with something warmer than Jupiter’s piss.”

Indeed it was.  Vitus and Lysandros remained upon the ramshackle rooftops, crossing with relative ease from one to the other as Gannicus and I took to the streets and divided.  I stepped into the yawning shadows of narrow passageway as Gannicus slid into the one opposite, the lightless road lolling between us.

The Roman patrol of four men passed the alley precisely as anticipated.  Gannicus and I attacked in silence, falling upon their flank.  Their startled grunts and gurgles of death were hidden beneath the thundering hiss of the rain.  We concealed the bodies, collected their weapons, passed the loot up and into Vitus and Lysandros’ waiting hands, and then we sought our next target.

We hunted.

A second patrol of four.

A third.

Twelve Romans, their blood washing into the frothing gutters, their swords and knives clanking softly overhead as Vitus and Lysandros followed our progress, keeping watch.  Due to Lydon and Lysandros’ detailed map of the city streets, alleys, and passageways, Gannicus and I encountered no obstacles as we cut through the maze and silently cut down soldiers.

I could only hope that Vitus and Rhaskos’ account of the harbor provided an easy escape.  In the event that it did not, the four of us closed in on the seaside front.  The stink of stale bodies, watered wine, and vomit wafted into the street from the open windows of squalid whorehouse.  Lucius had ventured here first to inquire of the slaver only to learn that he and his men had already come and gone.

I thought of the whores.  Pitied them.  Burned to assure them that they would never again suffer the mangy fucks.  But even with the death of this particular slaver and his guards, little comfort would be had.  Others would swiftly replace them.  What we required was a plan to free the slaves trapped within these walls of shit and piss.  A plan that would, unfortunately, not play out this night but soon.  I hoped _****very****  _soon.

Above my head, an owl’s call -- too soft to be heard beyond the clamor of clay cups and the slap of sweaty flesh.  That was the signal: the ship was taken and dock filling with freed men and women.  Our new brothers and sisters in the fight against Glaber’s army.  Gannicus nodded for me to retreat; he would cover the rear with Vitus, and I would tend to the path that Spartacus had chosen for escape, clearing the streets with aid of Lysandros.

When the gaps between rooftops widened beyond what Lysandros could safely cross, we paused.  Overhead, he knelt, poised with bow and arrow trained upon our surroundings.  On the muddy road, I slumped back into building's shadow with sword clutched in grasp, blade angled along the back of leg to conceal its gleam.

Movement.

A crowd stirring in the darkness like a slow, oncoming tide.

The sound of footsteps concealed by the rain.

Two men at the front.  Duro.  Spartacus.  I shifted from murky nook and raised my arm.   Duro answered in kind.  Moments later, Lysandros emerged from an alley, and I admired the effort it had required to navigate rain-slicked roofs and window sills with so many sets of Roman weapons crisscrossing his shoulders.

I walked in advance of all to better give warning if needed.

The way ahead remained deserted of human life.

Buildings grew shorter and sparser.  Breath held as we emerged onto open road, low fields on either side, the rain a thick veil removing the distant treeline from sight.

Somehow, I did not run.

Somehow, we reached the forest.

Somehow, we had done it.

I lagged upon the path until I drew level with Duro.  Together, we glanced back.  Waited in brittle silence.  A figure jogging along the road beside our liberated brethren, hastening toward us.

Agron.

Duro and I moved to embrace him at the same time and nearly knocked him into the ditch with our enthusiasm and relief.  Chuckling, he wrapped his long arms around both of us.  The scent of salt and rotted wood, blood and unwashed bodies clung to him and my nose twitched with memory.  I had arrived in Rome by way of slaver’s ship.  A lifetime ago.  I must have.  The churning of my belly, shortness of breath, frantic pulse, and sudden perspiration could hold no other meaning.

Thankfully, it was yet dark and the sky still emptying.  No one noticed the moment of mindless panic.

With a quick clasp to my brothers’ arms, I raced back to my charge: Spartacus and I would scout ahead and lead all upon safe path toward the temple.  Gannicus remained as rear guard.  Lysandros and Vitus both moved to Duro and Agron’s side.  Hopefully the weapons they carried would not be needful… or forcibly taken.  But that stood as the reason Agron and Duro remained with their kin -- to keep all calm and focused upon the journey.

I shook my head, marveling that it fell to my rowdy Germans to manage unshackled warriors.

But upon reflection, had they not offered me the same during my early days within the ludus?  Despite Spartacus’ offer of protection and Varro’s welcome instruction, it had been Agron and Duro who had lifted my spirits, who had taught me to hope, who had encouraged my focus upon the sands.

Had I shared the cage with any other men from Batiatus’ ludus, I would be a very different man now.  Of a certainty.

The rain thinned.  The clouds parted with the dawn.  Golden sunlight warmed the land and dried damp skin.  With distance gained, the chatter of foreign words increased in volume.  I heard Duro’s voice with occasional interjections from Agron.  Merriment -- tentative but rapidly gaining strength -- rippled through the forest.

We reached the temple just as Euclid began preparing a second serving of morning meal in expectation of our successful return.

Yes.  A very successful return.  As everyone eagerly squeezed into the yard and I returned to my brothers’ side, I knew there was no reason to be anxious.  We had added dozens of capable warriors to our ranks.  We had secured more swords and knives.  Our plans for Neapolis unfurled as anticipated.  Of course Crixus and his Gauls offered no warm welcome to these wild and unproven Germans.  That stood as no great shock.

The greater shock came when a stout, muscular warrior of middle years stepped forward absent hesitation and cast arms wide, boldly declaring what was clearly a greeting, though I understood only the word for “brothers.”

For weeks, Agron had been tutoring me in the tongue of his homeland, yet I still grasped so little.  I hid my frustration behind a wide smile as Agron and Duro addressed the ragged-looking men and women.  The largest -- a genuine beast of a man with a form Atlas would envy -- called out a suggestion of some sort.

He then grimaced when Agron informed we possessed “only water.”

Duro grinned -- uttered some jest with a rakish quirk of his brows that set everyone laughing.  I did not recognize enough German words to understand his wit.

Pity.

I glanced down, my chest cramped tight with failure… and jerked suddenly back to the moment when Agron’s hand slid across my shoulders and his chest brushed my arm.  As a blond man crowed a remark and the massive warrior merrily grappled him into a headlock, Agron provided translation: “They would celebrate with drink, but Duro warns against seeking a thing which turns Romans into fucking idiots.”

“So I have witnessed on many occasions,” I replied wryly.

Agron’s fingertip lightly skidded down my brow, following the scar received from fucking Roman celebration.  “Yes, you have,” Agron somberly agreed.  Our gazes snagged, tangled.  He leaned down and I lifted chin for a brief kiss.

The jovial German who had first spoken of brothers shuffled forward, booming something through a wide smile.

Agron’s eyes narrowed in warning and his answering words were clipped.

The man took no offense and, to my surprise, turned his attention wholly toward me before speaking in stilted common tongue: “Your boy -- he is most little warrior Lugo ever see!”

Duro stopped in what must have been mid-sentence to cough out, “Oh Scheiße.”

“Fucking moron,” Agron muttered as his hands slid from my shoulders, allowing me freedom to answer in full.

I did.

Grinning, I extended my arm to the man -- Lugo, he was presumably called -- and when he grasped it, I spun with both speed and force, pulling him off balance, yanking him off of his feet, and tumbling him to the sand with a resounding _****thud!****_

Duro whooped in approval.

Agron’s cackle was fucking joyful.

I continued grinning down at Lugo and stated very clearly, “I am Nasir.  I am _****not****  _little.  And I am no one’s boy.”  Quirking a brow in challenge, I awaited the brawny man’s response.

He laughed, a great belly laugh that shook his entire being.  “Nasir!” he roared happily.  “Nasir fight like giant!”

Lugo’s humor was irresistible and I found myself chuckling along with him.  I nodded for him to stand and braced myself against his weight.  The dense shit even made playful attempt at pulling me down and, when that failed, his delighted guffaws bounced through the forest.  Fuck, they would surely hear this fellow in Capua.

“Fucking fierce,” Agron reminded me, hands on his hips as he _****beamed.****_

“As I have ever been,” I bragged and wondered how Agron did not burst from sheer joy.  He was made fucking luminous with it.

Lugo punched me heartily in the arm to regain my attention.  “Nasir -- giant Nasir!  Come, my wild brother!  Teach Lugo and Lugo best Sedullus!”

He jerked his chin toward the enormous man who stood head-and-shoulders above all, even Agron, and the entire group doubled over with hilarity… the only exception being Sedullus, who merely smirked and jeered a clear invitation for Lugo to make attempt.

From the the shorter man’s foolhardy grin and gleeful reply, he accepted the challenge.

By the gods, the stout shit was incorrigible.

“Is his manner not familiar?” Duro inquired at me, brows waggling.

“Indeed,” I agreed and, knowing Duro’s meaning well, I ruthlessly teased, “only… Lugo possesses more hair than you.”

Agron guffawed as Duro pointed a finger in my face, struggling to scowl even as his dark eyes twinkled.  “You mistake length of hair for skill in battle, little brother!”

I charged him, teeth bared, and found Agron wedging his bulk between us, stumbling under my momentum.

More laughter.  From both Duro and myself as well.  Recalling the few words I knew in German, I informed Duro: “After meal.  Shit-eating swine cunt!”

He accepted the challenge with a bow, straightening amid the crowd’s roaring approval as I made attempt to hold Agron upright under the weight of his own helpless mirth.

Duro gestured grandly toward us and announced with clear and evident pride: “Meine Brüder -- zwei!”

_****My two brothers.** ** _

I noticed the ache in my cheeks an instant before Agron managed to center his weight upon his own knees and Spartacus’ hand landed upon my shoulder.  “Agron and Duro have taught you more than just wrestling, it seems.”

“Do insults not stand as the impetus of such activity?”

Spartacus huffed in amusement.  “Well spoken.”

Our new recruits shifted and drifted, happy to settle in for a rest under afternoon sun.  They spoke rapidly, gestured widely, laughed and occasionally clasped arms or embraced briskly.  Perhaps they compared homelands in an effort to establish bonds of kinship.  A freedom no doubt denied them by the slavers.

I nudged Spartacus to walk among them.

“I do not know their words,” he admitted ruefully, his gaze travelling over their lazing forms and smiling faces.

“Are many required when offering arm in friendship and smile in welcome?”

Of course not.  Still, Spartacus was a man of words as much as action.  Would a warrior venture into battle with one arm tied securely behind back?  Hardly.

Perhaps sensing Spartacus’ dilemma, Duro trotted over and offered himself as a translator.

I sent them off with a warning: “Do not talk yourself to exhaustion, little brother, or I will win our match too easily.”

His answering gesture required no translation.

Agron shook his head at us, giggling quietly.  Though the mirth was welcome after a long night and arduous journey across country, it would not fill bellies or provide rest to weary bodies.  I flicked Agron’s ear in parting and took to the steps, gesturing Santos over and gathering idle hands, directing freed men and women to stock the bath with clean cloths and move bedding into the recently-built shelters lining temple wall.

Duro seemed to accept charge of keeping the crowd of Germans entertained as small fires were built and Agron brought up cuts of meat from temple cellar.  Brave volunteers stepped forward to offer assistance with bathing and I was somehow unsurprised that it took a considerable amount of cajoling and lighthearted jests from Duro to convince his scoffing brethren to relinquish the fireside and scent of roasting meat for cleanliness.

Apparently, most deemed the shower of rain sufficient to task.

I was fortunate indeed that Agron and Duro appreciated the benefits of a warm bath.  Or rather, Agron was fortunate -- I doubted I would have agreed to share the stone bench with him at all otherwise.

The Germans emerged from the bath in clean cloth, but painstakingly arranged their tattered clothing to dry.

“It is all they yet possess of home,” Agron murmured into my ear when he caught me frowning at the line of rags draped over shelter poles.

“They yet possess memory of homeland and kin.  A thing far more precious and irreplaceable.”

Agron’s palm smoothed over my shoulders and down my arm, commiserating in silence.

Once food had begun to settle with bellies, including mine, I was hailed by name.  Looking up, I found myself on the receiving end of a wide grin.  The blond man who had been placed in a headlock -- Nemetes, he was called -- remarked lightly from where he sat among several capable-looking companions, “My skill of Roman tongue is lacking.”

I looked from him to Sedullus, who was studying me with a smirk.  I quirked a brow, scooped the bottom of my bowl clean, and lifted spoon.  I was meant to ask, but I put him off until I’d devoured the last remaining mouthful and utensil clattered against empty dish.  “You seek instruction, Nemetes?”

Beside me, Agron hummed in anticipation.  Oh, yes.  He and I -- as well as Nemetes and Sedullus -- knew to what destination these words were bound.  Still I did not relinquish grip upon wooden bowl.  Nor did Agron reach for it.  If these men desired that I prove my worth in battle, I would have them put forth genuine effort toward that aim.

Nemetes grinned.  “What of your appointment with Duro?  It is after meal.”

“So it is,” I answered.  “What of our appointment, Duro?” I continued, raising my voice and leaning around Agron to pointedly inquire.  “Has belly settled enough to take a beating?”

He crouched forward, elbows upon knees, and retorted, “By what means would I know the state of _****your****  _belly?”

Argumentative, cheeky shit.  “I harbor no expectation of such.  To make a guess at the state of your own is surely demanding overmuch.  Apologies.”

Nemetes chortled, belying his supposedly insufficient knowledge of common tongue.  He muttered translation and a wave of soft laughter rolled through the yard.

Still, I waited for Duro’s response.

He gave it with a grin and flick of wrist.  “Ah fuck.  Let us see it done.”

Duro stood and reached for his belt as if to divest himself of weapons entirely.

“Take pause, brother,” I bid him as I abandoned my dishes and stood.  “Your brethren demand entertainment.”

Duro caught my meaning and smiled, chin lifting.  “Lysandros!  A pair of blunted blades.”

We exchanged sharpened gladius for training swords and descended the steps to the yard.  The space between the pair of campfires was quickly cleared, providing a space perhaps eight paces long by four paces wide.  Still seated on the steps, Agron bit his lip in poorly disguised anticipation.  The hunger in his gaze chased the night’s chill from my skin and replaced it with fire.

Duro laughed, drawing my attention away from my lover’s silent encouragement.  “Yes, yes.  It is clear who will share your pallet tonight.”

“If you have yet to receive offers, I would lend aid to your vanity.”  My lips curled upward.  “And promise gentle defeat.”  I swung the blade in my grasp, twirling it absent thought as we took position.

“Is this what you promise Agron?”

“What madness takes you?  I would have assumed you to know your own brother better.”

Duro shrugged a shoulder and lifted weapon.  “Eh, you release him from bed absent wounds.  What are we meant to think?”

Even Spartacus found amusement at that.  I glimpsed his mirth, which took the form of a benevolent grin, bracketed by the crass hollers from the Gauls.  Liscus appeared to be leading the calls for action.  Shit-stirring fuck.

I scoffed at Duro: “Perhaps I ration him well.  Shall I provide demonstration?  With sword, of course.”

“Oh-ho!  I but await your move, little brother.”

So be it.

We fought: swords clashing, elbows swinging, bodies spinning, tumbling, weaving.

He fell.  Tangled my feet.  I crashed to the ground.

We rolled apart.

Regained feet.

We readied weapons to enthusiastic cheers.  Rushed to meet attack under the gazes of friends, familiar and new.  Gannicus’ laughter bounced across the yard.  The walls shook with Agron’s roaring cheers.  A moment between bouts permitted my gaze to snag upon Oenomaus as he looked on from Spartacus’ side with arms crossed.  Assessing and prideful.

Duro claimed advantage--toppled me and I hooked both legs around his sword-arm, grasped his wrist, pulled--

He fell hard but surged to his feet before I could pin him.

We circled.  Drank water.  Traded jests.

“You collect dust,” Duro noted.  “Leave some yet in the yard, eh?”

“To conceal your fallen pride?”

We fought again.  

And again.

I met his charge-- _ ** **Clank!****_ \--spun aside--tripped upon his longer leg-- _ ** **Thud!****_ \--air shoved from lungs but I yet clasped weapon--sent its point toward his groin as I hooked feet behind ankles and pulled!

“Fuck!” he shouted as he hit the ground.  Wheezed.  “This is gentle treatment!?”

“Gentler than what the slavers upon road received.”

“If that is the measure you would use--”  He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief, arms going slack with exhaustion.  “--I am fucked.”

I laughed.  “Only if the woman is agreeable.”  In his current state, even Camilla could have easily turned away his advances had she yet stood among us.  I reached out an arm and we pulled each other to our feet.  Embraced with tired, aimless slaps upon back that raised brief clouds of dust.

When I accepted a cup of water from Agron, he held fast, tugging me toward a seat upon the steps.  In answer to my quirked brow, he grinned: “Lugo asks Duro to tell of your tests in battle.  Sit and I will assist in offering correction.”

I sat.

Agron voiced many corrections.  Fewer at my prompting than absent it.

For the first time, I spoke of Atella and the soldiers I had sent to the afterlife.  Though sense of accomplishment was strong -- I had fucking survived to cast gaze upon my brothers once again -- I enjoyed no pride.  I had indeed “robbed” Glaber’s men of life; I had slipped through the darkness and alighted from one rooftop to the next as a thief.

“My methods do not shame you?” I dared to softly ask once Agron and I had crossed the threshold of our room to collect pallet and blankets.  We would sleep in the yard beside Duro, who refused to leave his kin unattended.  At least I had persuaded him to join me in the bath… with Lugo and a dark-haired, bearded man called Totus eagerly accompanying.  And just as eagerly disregarding strigil in favor of clouding the water with sand and grit.

Fucking Germans.  Did not one of them possess sense of proper bathing?

Regardless, I had worn a smile as they had splashed about like asses fearing a snake in the water, and I had yet kept the concern I now voiced confined behind teeth as Agron, Nemetes, and Sedullus had taken their turn after us.  It was late now and I was weary.  Too weary to hold my tongue any longer.

Agron froze at my words.  “Shame?” he blurted.  “By what reasoning would you think such a thing?”

“I do not fight.”  Avoiding his gaze, I confessed: “I kill.”

As a gladiator, I had never sought to kill in the arena.

Within the ludus, Oenomaus had trainedme to fight, yes, and I had sparred daily upon the sands but…

But now, when my fingers grasped sharpened weapon and my body made use of it, I did not simply seek to best opponent in show of strength and skill.  The slavers upon the road, Marius’ guards in abandoned villa, Glaber’s men in Atella, the executioners in Capua’s arena, Roman patrols in Neapolis: I did not _****fight…****_

“I kill.”

Agron’s hands cupped my jaw as his knees bent and shoulders hunched.  Our heights nearly matched and our gazes met as he whispered, “You live.  You return to my arms.”

“Your arms give welcome to a killer of men.”

“A slayer of _****Romans,”****  _he insisted, unblinking.  His determination was a force equal to the light of the sun pushing its way into my eyes and causing my head to throb with its intangible might.  “I am no different,” my lover solemnly spoke.

I exhaled slowly, my head spinning from holding so tightly to my own breath and fear.

Agron pressed his brow to mine.  “Had I not been brought to that Roman’s fucking ludus, I might have spent my remaining days in ignorance of you.”  He shook his head, rotating his skull without relinquishing touch.  “And any man who would dare utter the word ‘shame’ in your regard I challenge to withstand your fire.”

By the gods.

I gritted my teeth, exhaled through my nose, struggled to push past the overwhelming wave of his pride and affection and _****gratitude.****_   His expression hid nothing of his regard; he offered all.  As he always had and I dared to hope he always would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never studied German and, besides, whatever variation is spoken east of the Rhine in 73 B.C. is definitely not modern German (or even High German) so I'm not sure how to best and most dramatically (with comedic flair) phrase that "My two brothers!" declaration. Sincerest apologies if I totally F*CKED up the German, there. This may be the only chapter where I actually included German words in the story.


	9. Hunting Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: TORTURE (crucifixion), GORE, DEATH
> 
> This chapter starts off pretty harmless but it gets INTENSE. FYI.

Footsteps.

I was not generally accustomed to spending the night out-of-doors, but Agron’s familiar presence ensured I’d slept soundly until the shush of shifting limbs and shuffling feet tugged my eyes open.  It was yet dark and the campfires glowed softly with dying embers.

At the sight of Sedullus’ unmistakable form moving with intent to rouse his companions, I shook Agron awake.  “Where do they go?”

“To hunt,” he grunted, reaching out to the neighboring pallet to slap Duro’s arm.  He startled awake on a curse, hand shooting toward absent sword pommel, but desisted at Agron’s silent nod of explanation toward the others who were quickly rising to begin a new day of freedom.

Duro lurched upright and trotted over to offer a beaming grin and a whispered morning greeting.

Agron and I abandoned our pallet as well, joining the congress gathering beside temple gate.  There was a moment of confusion as sleep-muddled minds tangled words upon the tongue and within ear, but it quickly became clear that the group would not be swayed from venturing into the woods.

“Fuck,” Agron huffed, scrubbing his face roughly to fully awaken his wits.  “Spartacus spoke of joining us.”

And here Sedullus was, moments away from setting foot to intent, requiring only a spear, which he seemed determined to acquire.  In spite of the man’s looming form, Duro’s expression remained unmoved by Sedullus’ gesticulated arguments.

“Request a moment’s pause--” I began only to stop at the sight of Nemetes and Totus emerging from our weapons cache with the desired implements in grasp.

“Fuck,” Agron repeated, growling this time.  “Fucking bullheaded--!”  He paused as Duro looked back over his shoulder and, with a short jerk of chin, signaled for us to count ourselves among their number.

Agron’s fists clenched.  “Sedullus will not be swayed and they must not be allowed to venture out unguided.”  Agron glanced at me, a hard quality to his gaze that I had never witnessed before.  “I must join them.”

“They will not heed Duro?”

“Whether they heed him or not, I must go.”

I clasped Agron’s arm.  “Then remain at Duro’s side.  I will fetch Spartacus and join you swiftly.  For which direction are you bound?”

I shadowed Duro and Agron only far enough to gain my bearings and a likely destination, then I raced back across the meadow toward temple yard.  The ghostly glow that precedes dawn soaked the landscape, the sky turning lavender and gradually overwhelming the pinpoints of stars.  I expended some effort to quiet my steps as I raced through the gate and up the stairs, skidding to a halt upon the threshold of the room Spartacus shared with Mira.  She met me in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, still clinging to the warmth of sleep.

“Nasir?  What--”

“Sedullus and the others leave to hunt.  Duro and Agron could not persuade them to wait.”

Spartacus shouldered past Mira, fingers working to buckle his belt and sandal straps looped over one wrist.  “Agron and Duro?”

“Act to guide them toward safe hunting grounds.”  I gestured in the direction.

Spartacus scowled.  He sighed: “Gather and fill four water skins.  I would not have our throats parched at their haste.”

Mira dived back into the room with purpose and I quickly completed assigned task.  Moments later, I was unsurprised to see that she accompanied Spartacus, a bow and quiver of arrows at hand.  Lysandros’ presence was unexpected but equally welcome.

“This way,” I told, passing each of them a water skin and hurrying toward the treeline.  Spartacus kept pace with me at the front.  I noted the dark frown upon his brow with a jolt of heart.  I observed, “Their departure fosters ill feeling beyond simple frustration?”

Spartacus nodded.  “I have heard tell that men east of the Rhine make war as often upon Roman soldiers as they do among themselves.”

My breath caught and I wheezed out a cough.  My brothers -- two against a hunting party of ten.  I lunged forward, quickening my steps, but Spartacus’ arm held me at his side.  “No.  We know these lands better and hold advantage.  Move silently.”

_****And do not reveal our position.** ** _

Our precautions proved unnecessary.  We glimpsed Totus crouched behind brush up ahead, his gaze focused toward the clearing beyond.  Spartacus lifted a hand for Mira and Lysandros to fall back and take cover as we made approach toward the German.  He was not the only one hidden from the clearing.  Lugo and Sedullus also waited with spears in hand.

A crash of breaking branches in the distance.

Running feet.

Saxa and Nemetes racing with Duro, their positions fanned out and attention hooked upon something before them, hidden in shadow and clinging brush.

A large goat charged toward the waiting hunters.  The readied spears.  Fuck, I stood too far away to place myself between those weapons and Duro should they--

The goat bounded into the clearing, hooves striking hard ground--

Saxa and Nemetes ducked behind trees--

Sedullus, Lugo, and Totus stood with spears raised--

I glimpsed Agron’s form among theirs--

Weapons were loosened.  Totus’ spear missed the goat’s hindquarters.  Lugo’s, though released with force, sailed wide to clatter against a tree.  Sedullus’ shallowly pierced the animal’s shoulder.  Agron’s slid cleanly through its neck.

And Duro--

Duro was leaning hand upon a tree, grinning and appearing utterly pleased with his own role in the chase.

My palm itched to smack him.

“A good catch,” Spartacus called out, surprising a start out of Totus.  Lugo unabashedly bid him good morning while Sedullus grunted indistinctly and moved forward to claim the fallen animal.  I made my way to Duro’s side and waited for Agron to either join us or lend aid to Spartacus.

Sedullus’ lip curled at the placement of Agron’s spear.  Even I could see that it was a good throw and a clean hit.  One that had saved them the trouble of tracking a wounded and blundering animal for leagues.

Agron answered the other man’s look with a smug grin.  I held myself apart, studying, noting the measure of tension in Sedullus’ shoulders even as his expression held nothing but playful mockery.  Rhaskos had gifted me such a look after I had bested him upon the platform.

Removing both spears, Sedullus lightly tossed Agron’s back to him before hoisting the animal over his shoulders.

“Gather the others,” Spartacus invited, “and I would show you the trail that boar favor.”

Agron offered translation and Duro bumped my arm.  “You do not offer a brother water?”

I snorted.  “How am I at fault for your oversight?”

Duro affected the most pitiable expression I had ever witnessed, and I barked a laugh in his face.  He giggled and begged ridiculously until I relented and by the time the water skin had been shared with Saxa and Nemetes, everyone had relaxed into accomplished smiles.

Mira and Lysandros came forward at Spartacus’ call and we set foot in pursuit of boar.

Our query was larger than the creature Gannicus had felled the week before.  The animal was swiftly surrounded and, this time, Sedullus waved Agron away and performed the kill himself, thrusting spear into the boar’s skull with the weapon held tightly in grasp.

The hunting party offered congratulations on the successful kill, but Sedullus looked to Spartacus and Agron with brow lifted in expectation of their awe.

It would take more than a display of brute strength to win the respect of men who had survived the Roman arena.

But Spartacus’ tone was patient and his smile friendly as he complimented Sedullus’ technique.  Nor did Agron withhold honest satisfaction at the morning’s work.  Duro chattered with Lugo, teasing and translating and further lifting spirits.  Even pulling a chuckle from Lysandros and an indulgent roll of eyes from Mira when Lugo swept Duro off of his feet and into his arms, my young brother squawking and swatting at the oaf indignantly.

I was considering moving to Agron’s side -- and thereby keeping distance from Lugo and his penchant for manhandling -- when Sedullus suddenly declared, “Next, we catch Romans.”

I had not heard the man utter words in the common tongue before, but Spartacus did not appear to share my surprise.  “Tomorrow, my friend.  Today, we hunt meat.  And, after we take meal, we train with sword and spear.  Tomorrow,” Spartacus grinned, “anyone who wishes to take the lives of Roman soldiers and claim weapons for our cause is welcome to join our venture.”

Tomorrow.  The ship from Gallia -- and perhaps even the ship from Damascus -- would make port holding more warriors awaiting freedom from the shackles of Rome.

Sedullus scowled, impatient for the blood of enemies, but Lugo spoke, “Come, brothers!  We feast today.  We fight tomorrow!”

Yes, tomorrow.

Duro clapped a hand on the stout warrior’s shoulders and challenged, “You’ll fight if you can pass test of combat, friend.”

Spartacus agreed: “We would have you stand with us as a true brother -- or sister -- against Rome.”

Sedullus arched a skeptical brow at Agron, who nodded and readily translated.

Lugo moaned.  “Giant Nasir best Lugo already!”

I grinned.  “Do not concern yourself.  The test will be a _****fair****_  fight.”

Indeed it was.  Or rather, they were.  Each and every match saw a man or woman, blunted blades in hand and sand beneath feet, paired against skilled opponent from the Brotherhood for the purpose of displaying skill rather than seeking victory.  Even those who did not seek a position on the morrow’s venture were tested and their potential judged by Oenomaus.  Agron accepted the task of acting as challenger to many of the larger fighters.  Gannicus, perhaps out of a sense of boredom, volunteered to lend aid when Oenomaus ordered Agron to rest.  When Sedullus’ turn came, however, Spartacus himself stepped forward.

Sedullus chuckled, casting his attention briefly toward the crowd and offering something clearly meant to be a jest.

Water cup to his lips, Agron stiffened.

Duro leaped to his feet and shouted a response, fully as furious as he had been when casting gaze upon my battered face following my first summons to the Calavius domus.

Sedullus blinked and Duro amended his previous claim with a remark accompanied by rueful grin, drawing forth amused noises from all who understood his words, even Agron, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Spartacus appeared unbothered at the byplay.  As did Oenomaus, who calmly commanded, “Attack!”

Though Sedullus swung with enough strength to break a man’s arm, Spartacus easily redirected the blows.  Countered.  Landed numerous hits while permitting none.  I tracked the German’s moves -- each sloppy thrust and lazy block.  Had this man ever been required to skill his own hands at a task, or had he always been so large as to compensate with brute strength and intimidation?

It was plain to those of us who had seen him fight before that Spartacus extended the match, encouraged Sedullus to give the challenge his all, but even then the man was handily disarmed.

Duro led the yard in cheering for Sedullus’ efforts, letting loose with a remark that erased the remnants of irritation from the bigger man’s face and pulled forth a genuine bellow of mirth.

“Spartacus!” Oenomaus called and, with a flick of his fingers, gestured the Thracian to the front.  “Lead the drills.”

There were too many among us to allow for everyone to claim a spot on the sands.  Also, we still had not enough weapons.  So we divided.  Crixus and his allies moved toward the gate to take their places.  Agron gestured for the freed men and women who had been liberated from villas to stand in the center.  The first of the Germans to be tested were arranged at far back in order to enjoy clear view of the forms as executed by those more familiar with them.

I claimed opportunity to wander toward Duro and make request: “What words did Sedullus break prior to test?”

Duro snorted softly.  Rolling his eyes, he explained, lips barely moving: “He expressed concern that he would break our Thracian and, if so, who would lead the fight against Rome in his stead?”

I stiffened at the challenge.  “And your answer?”

“That Spartacus leads because we gladly follow, and he has earned our trust many times over.”  Duro paused and his lips quirked, “Though I admitted to thinking even I could best him, once upon a time.”

Indeed he had.  “Only ‘once’ upon a time?”

“Perhaps twice,” he allowed with a shrug.

Not for the first time, I pitied Agron for his charge of keeping Duro’s head attached to neck.  I commented: “Your concluding remarks seemed to set him at ease.”

Duro grinned.  Nodded.  “I said we would surely see him fell four Romans with one blow at battle’s onset and six at a time before its conclusion.”

“A compliment.”  To feed the man’s ever-hungering ego.  “And an encouragement.”  To appease his clear desire for position even above Spartacus.  I sighed.  “He will present problems.”

“Only if he is ignored,” Duro replied swiftly, lighthearted tone belying the calculation beneath.  Duro met my sidelong glance with confidence.  “There are many such men east of the Rhine.”

And my young brother had much skill in managing them.  Remarkable.  How had I not realized this before now?

As Spartacus called the exercises, Oenomaus walked among them, up and down the lines, giving correction.  I stood between Libo and Lysandros when my turn came, and I glimpsed Sedullus from the corner of my eye as he moved awkwardly, scowling his way through the repetitions.  Three sets of drills saw everyone put through required paces, and then Spartacus invited those who would volunteer to fight in the streets of Neapolis to seek him out before evening meal.

I caught Agron’s gaze and Duro, who stood at his brother’s side, stated the fucking obvious: “You go to Neapolis.”

“Can you name a more qualified Syrian?”

Agron crossed his arms.  His shoulders heaved with a sigh.  “The tongue spoken in Syria escapes your memory.”

“Perhaps some among their number will know words in that of Rome’s.”  If I assumed in error, so be it.  I would not remain behind.

Gannicus giggled on approach, giving my shoulder a friendly bump.  “Regardless, we would clear the fucking streets of shit, eh?”

Indeed.  “A good night’s work, wasn’t it?”

The Celt’s head twitched toward me as he spoke to my Germans: “This fucking Syrian.  Where did you find him?”

Duro opened his mouth, but it was Agron who spoke: “He tumbled from the hands of the fucking gods themselves.”

Perhaps I had.  It was a more favorable venture to contemplate than the truth I could claim.

Gannicus agreed: “I believe you, German.  But!  That does not give you leave to exhaust his strength before we depart!”

“And what,” I demanded, “gives you leave to speak of me as if I do not hear, you gossiping shit?”

“Ah-ha-ha!  Nasir.  You are a fucking delight as always.”

I smirked.  “You would have no notion,” I teased, “of the measure of delight my fucking brings.”

Duro snorted out a laugh with such exuberance that he was forced to wipe at his dripping nose with back of hand.

Agron cast gaze skyward, but his wide smile bespoke of joy he would not have interrupted.  Not even by blessings of the gods.

“One day,” Gannicus insisted with a shake of his finger, “I shall claim last fucking word against you, Syrian.”

“Today is not that day,” I gamely retorted.  “Perhaps fortune will favor you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, we would all need it.  Of a certainty.

I lay awake long after Duro’s nearby snores joined the nighttime chorus in temple yard and Agron ceased nuzzling sleepily into my unbound hair.  I held myself beneath his long, heavy arm and stared up at the starry sky.  Admired its serene calm and unblinking stare.  Qualities I resolved to display on the morrow, no matter the fortunes awaiting us.

A resolve that would be tested almost from the moment my feet entered Neapolis.

Spartacus remained with our forces concealed in nearby woods, a blade in every hand and blood upon thoughts, as Gannicus meandered lazily toward the wharf on pretense of seeking passage abroad.  Rabanus and Litaviccus shadowed him, weapons cloaked and head hooded beneath the merciless sun; Tilius supplied the pretense of a valued body slave in need of guards.

I returned to the role of slaver, Lydon and Pollux acting as my men; I would have gladly had Agron and Duro at my side, but until our new brothers had been fully tested and had declared their loyalty to Spartacus, they could not be left absent guiding hand and quick translation.  Estimating the number of soldiers we would face in battle upon the city streets stood my charge, one Lydon and Pollux would ensure to completion.

I was anticipating the sounds of a city conducting daily business -- chatter and footsteps and creaky cart wheels -- yet heard none.  My pace faltered as muffled shouts -- commands given with authority -- reverberated along the street leading to Neapolis’ marketplace.

At the flash of Roman red cloak up ahead, Lydon gestured us between buildings.  Soldiers barked at passersby, ordering all to abandon task and bear witness in the square.

I nodded for Pollux and Lydon to follow and we wove our way there unaccompanied.  Though I gave no shit for whatever event now unfolded in city’s center, the gathering would ensure my assigned task swiftly done; if the people were being rounded up in one location, then surely a large number of soldiers would be stationed there as well to guarantee their commander’s aims met.

As we made our approach, the clamor untangled itself into individual voices.  Alley’s end glowed bright up ahead.  The angle of the morning sun kept us safely shadowed, but I would not risk discovery.  We each pressed back to wall and slid slowly through the shade toward buildings’ edge.

Peering into the square, I noted that it was indeed ringed with armed soldiers.  The square itself was packed shoulder to shoulder with citizens and slaves of Neapolis.  Upon the stage, where men and women and children were regularly sold into Roman hands, a commotion.

A scream of denial.

A plea, weeping and desperate.

The voice pulled me nearer.  I caught a flash of pale limbs and slight figure that was quickly subdued behind hulking forms and forced down upon stage platform.  I barely heard the words spoken by the man garbed in ceremonial armor who lectured on the hazards of speaking Spartacus’ name.

The orator turned, his face fully revealed.  A jolt of recognition: Glaber’s tribune.  Marcus.  Glaber’s primus centurion.

My breath caught and teeth bared, I lunged toward the scene playing out upon Roman stage--

Pollux’s arm shot out to bar my path-- _ ** **no!****_

Marcus nodded for his men to begin their work with hammer and iron nails-- _ ** **NO!****_

Begging.  Pitiful whimpers and frantic pleas slipped through pauses between hateful words.  Misery seeped into my ears.  My skin.  My flesh.

The condemned cried out and the hammers came down--

_****Ping!** ** _

A scream torn from throat and belly and spirit.

_****Ping!** ** _

My heart shredded with his voice, sliced raw and raspy.

_****Ping!** ** _

_****Please, no more.** ** _

_****Ping!** ** _

Mindless sobs.  A soft mantra of denial.  Wrongfully accused: _****I stand wrongfully accused, please!****_

That voice.

No… it could not be.  It could not be!

But it was.  My stomach lurched into my throat and I choked on breath and aimless fury as the cross was levered upright to display its victim: the boy from the whorehouse.

No.

How?

How had this fucking come to pass?

Movement at the side of the stage provided answer in the form of a familiar and treacherous Syrian.  Ashur was here.

And if Ashur was here, then--

I shouldered past Pollux and Lydon, retreating the way we had come.

Turning my back upon the boy’s suffering ripped my guts out through the soles of my feet, but I could do nothing -- _****wretchedly fucking nothing!****_  -- for him in this crowd.  Relief from torment would come with the arrival of either death or Spartacus’ forces.

I held no recollection of the return journey.  My upper arms felt bruised, perhaps from brutish grasp, but I held no memory of Pollux or Lydon’s hands upon me.

The shade of the forest gave me pause.  I blinked.  Panted.  Scanned for Spartacus.  Found him.

With but a glance at my countenance, Duro and Agron abandoned the Germanic warriors under their charge and converged upon me as I came to a halt before the Thracian.

“How many do we face?”

“Perhaps a hundred at city center.  Beyond that I know not,” I admitted with frustration.  “Punishment taking place in the market distracted from charge.”

“Punishment?” Agron repeated, a demand for clarification that Duro was not patient enough to wait for.

“Who do those fucking Romans punish?”

“The boy.  From the whorehouse.”

Agron stiffened, turned his gaze and clenched jaw and sudden anger toward the city beyond the tree line and harvested fields.

“Fucking--fucking Roman piss and shit!” Duro spat.  “How did they find him?”

“Ashur,” I answered, watching Spartacus carefully.  Before either of my Germans could curse the fuck to Tartarus, I explained: “Ashur accompanies Glaber’s tribune, though I did not lay eyes upon Glaber himself.”

Agron’s mouth tightened into a moue of barely contained rage.  “He makes quick work in our wake.”

With a gesture to the scar yet evident upon my face -- the scar Agron had so gently petted two days before, I retorted, “My markings provide ease of task, do they not?”

Agron’s throat rippled as he forced himself to swallow back an echo of the impotent scream that pressed against my own teeth.

“Goatfuck!”  Duro’s fists clenched and arms bulged.

I grabbed his elbow in a show of solidarity even as Spartacus drew breath to speak.  “Ashur will expect us to enter the square -- to confirm the sight with own eyes once we hear of the boy’s fate.  Glaber’s man will anticipate hasty assault.”

Somehow, my terse nod of agreement did not snap my own neck in half.  “A sound Roman strategy would be to send a number of men into the forest to await our attack on the city.”

“The soldiers remaining in the streets would serve to draw us in as those from the forests move to cut off retreat.”

And catch us in typical Roman military maneuver.  One that holds no record of failure.

From this day forward, it would.

Agron’s jaw clenched.  “I will see everyone prepared to shift position.”

Spartacus nodded.  We would allow the Romans to divide their forces.  We would meet them in advance of expectation and ambush them among the trees.  Marcus would have no knowledge of his losses until it was too late.

I glared up at the sun.  We had set foot from the temple while it was still dark and it was not yet noon.  The boy would endure the cross for _****hours****_  yet.  Hours I could not--I could do nothing!  Nothing despite the aid he had given -- in ignorance, yes, but given nonetheless--and I could do nothing!

He bore torment because I had chosen him, because I had affected the manner of a slaver and sought information with no thought toward consequences, my intent focused solely upon desirable aim.  He begged for mercy because my gaze had caught upon a telltale flicker of fear in his eyes.  Fear I had not eased.  Cooperation I had not rewarded.  Shackles I had exchanged for mortal wounds.

Agron slouched onto his knees in front of me, and I suddenly realized that I no longer stood.  I knelt in the forest windfall, sword flat upon the ground before me, head bowed, hands wrapped around the knife sheathed at belt slanted across chest.

The boy’s screams echoed in my ears.  Ears that Agron cupped in his battle-hardened hands before tilting his brow against mine.  He did not ask me to break words.  He required no such effort to know my thoughts.

“Duro stands with Spartacus?” I checked, my voice garbled upon phlegm.

Agron nodded and silence descended again.  I clutched his arms, held him close as I breathed, breathed, breathed.

Waited, waited, waited.

Slowly, the noon sun sipped the shadows away, and then began to pour them back out.  Slowly.  So fucking slowly.

I could no longer recall a time when my chest did not throb in agony -- its pulsing torment as eternal as the gods themselves -- when Duro came to report movement from the city.  Two hundred and fifty Romans had been counted moving along the roads toward the woods.

Agron gathered up my sword and held it out in invitation.  Perhaps I did not deserve the honor of grasping its pommel, but if I did not, then all of the pain borne until this moment -- mine, Agron’s, Duro’s, the boy’s -- held no meaning.

No.  Fucking--no.  I would take account and reckon the measures.  Rome would suffer as we have suffered.  I would fucking see it done.

Teeth bared and jaw clenched, I exhaled and my entire being burned with fire.  “Two hundred and fifty.  Plenty for each of us,” I observed, nimbly collecting gladius from my lover’s hand.

Duro’s helpless chuckle and slap of palm to shoulder saw me to my feet.  Agron’s fingertips brushed my hair back off of my neck.  We wove through the trees to take position before it occurred to me to wonder who might have laid eyes upon my despair.  It mattered not.  Nemetes shifted uncomfortably upon sight of the expression on my face.  Lugo’s eager grin faded and was replaced with lock-jawed determination.

The Romans were coming.

And about fucking time as well.

We pressed our backs to tree bark.  Drew shallow breath.  Exhaled through gritted teeth.  Tightened grip upon sword.

Glaber’s men moved in fucking formation even through the trees and I grinned in anticipation.  Our numbers, though fewer, would swiftly encircle them and deny sufficient territory for well-spaced defense.

Blood.  I would have _****blood****._

Moments later, I did.  Moments later, when Spartacus gave the signal and we rushed from hiding, my hands and chest and face were bathed in it.

Sunlight and steaming spatter.  Guts and severed limbs.  Shouts of warning.  Wails of pain.  The rustle of leaves and creak of leather.  Jostling bodies in the thick of chaotic churning current--lightning flashes upon steel--the stench of sweat and piss--the hiss of metal and squelch of sliced flesh--cries for mercy and barks of denial and I lost myself in the tide…

“Nasir!  It is done!  Nasir, halt and return!”

_****“Return to my arms.”****  _ I blinked.  Paused.  Exhaled.

“Nasir!  Do you heed me, wild little brother?”

_****“Sense of surroundings.”** ** _

I sucked in a breath and turned my back on the gore-splashed trees.  I stood alone, surrounded by a measure of three paces.  Mutilated bodies splayed and crumpled at my feet.  Spartacus was giving me a sidelong look of concern.  Agron watched me, chest heaving with panting breaths as if he’d over-extended himself in effort to match another’s pace.  Duro was giving me an evaluating grin, revealing dimples and happy disbelief.

“Save a little for the taking of the city,” Duro chided.  Behind him, Sedullus was gazing at me thoughtfully.  Nemetes and Saxa shared appraising glances.  Totus and Lugo beamed.

I huffed.  “Let us fucking see to it.  I yet desire the blood of Glaber’s men on my hands.”

Agron stepped over a mangled Roman corpse and drew close enough to thumb the drops of blood and bits of flesh from my brow.

_****“Fucking fierce,”****_  he did not say.  He did not have to.  His bright gaze and admiring smile spoke for him.

Spartacus cleaned and sheathed his sword.  “We enter the city after nightfall.  Let us take rest until then.”

We did.  I sat beside Agron, shoulders, elbows, knees pressed together in a warm kiss of filthy skin.  Even our cloaks could not conceal the fact that we had been in a battle and none of our recently adopted brethren could claim garments of sufficient length for concealment.  So we waited for fall of night.  Lysandros and Vitus redrew city maps in the dirt.  Duro answered both requests for clarification and disputes on strategy alike with cheer.  My little brother did indeed possess a talent.

I demanded no translation from Agron.  What he offered in its stead -- steady presence and unshakable approval -- was much preferred.

My mind sometimes turned toward Gannicus, Rabanus, and Litaviccus.  Did they conceal themselves in shadow awaiting our arrival or had a far more immutable shadow claimed them?

With a jerk of my chin, I cast thoughts elsewhere.  Lugo caught my listlessly roving gaze and came to sit beside me.

“Lugo spoke wrong,” the man informed me with a happy smile.  “Giant Nasir -- not fight like giant.  Nasir fight like army!”

I sputtered on a cackle, utterly and unexpectedly disarmed.  “You fought very well yourself.”

He shook his head.  “Nasir take too many Romans,” he groused.  “Nasir move too fast.  Give Lugo early start next battle.”

Agron’s arm rubbed against mine with his silent laughter.

I snorted and haughtily replied, “How am I at fault for your slowness of foot?”

“One day,” Lugo predicted in a tone that was almost threatening, “Nasir will be glad of Lugo’s skill in battle.”

With a rebutting shake of my head, I patted his shoulder: “I already am.”

Rather than his chest puffing up with pride, he slouched and sent me a sour pout.  “Nasir see nothing but Romans in path.”

“I saw you, Lugo!” Duro softly called, waving gleefully.  “And I eagerly anticipate seeing your efforts with ax or hammer in hand!”

“Ah!  Yes, give Lugo hammer.”  He winked at me.  “Nasir will like Lugo, yes?  More than Nasir like Agron!”

And then the dense oaf waggled his fucking brows.

My jaw dropped at his blatant teasing.  Perhaps I was… yes--horrified--utterly _****horrified****  _at the prospect.

Agron merely reached around me and planted his splayed hand squarely in the simple shit’s face, lazily shoving him away.  Lugo chortled, so fucking pleased with himself.

I shook my head at their antics and valiantly fought back a smile.  This was hardly the time for humor, but I could not deny the calm focus left in its wake.

We washed hands using cold water from the skins carried over shoulder and upon belt.  We ate.  We took rest.

The sun set.  We rose.  We stretched.

We began our approach to the city of Neapolis.

The streets were empty despite the lingering warmth of the sun and clear night.  I thought of the boy upon the cross in the marketplace.  Every fiber of my being ached to see to him, to assure him that he had not suffered alone, but I knew well it would not be my first act.  Marcus had surely prepared an ambush in city center.  Again, we would surround, trap, and slay.  Only then would rescue be possible.

I once more considered Gannicus and the ships we sought to crack open, liberating the warriors within.  But.  That would come.  Before the night was out, so too would Gauls and Syrians be.  Crixus and his men would see it done.

We crept through the darkened alleyways.  The soft sound of blade upon flesh occasionally accompanying our progress as we encountered soldiers on patrol.  We left the weapons on the bodies and left the bodies where they lay -- blades and armor were not forgotten, but we could not afford their weight to slow our steps or the rattle of belt fastenings to reveal position.

Block by block, we claimed Neapolis, marking our path with spilled blood.

And then: the square.  The cross.  The pale, slumped form of the boy whose wounds should have been my cost to pay.  Duro, Agron, Spartacus, Fulco, and I crept forward in breath-suspended silence.

A blast rocked the night -- the trumpeting of a Roman horn.  A call to battle.

We had been right to be wary of a trap.

And yet… though we tensed for the ground-shaking thunder of approaching footsteps, none were heard.  The clang of swords in the distance, yes, but no great force converged upon us.

Marcus had just called his forces forth from the forest.  He did not know that horn’s blow fell upon death-chilled ears.

A second bellow of the horn -- but suddenly cut short.

His position had been discovered so soon?  Did the man draw his final breath even now?

I was disappointed not to stand witness.

But--

A glow above the rooftops in the direction of the harbor.

Flames.

Screams.

Frothing waves and creaking-snapping-splintering wood.

Sounds of battle where Crixus and Gannicus joined forces.

“Go!” Agron bid Spartacus, who nodded for Fulco to accompany him and they sprinted toward the port, toward the roaring fires, toward the fight.  I startled as Agron and Duro sheathed swords and leaped up to the stage, each taking hold of an arm of the cross to lower it and its burden to the stage.

“Is he yet of this world?” I gasped out, forcing myself to turn away and stand guard.

“Yes,” Agron grunted curtly.

Duro marveled: “Though I do not fucking see how.”

The sound of a hand patting cheek prompted me to order: “No, do not wake him before nails have been pulled from flesh and--here!”  I tossed my water skin at Agron.  “Dampen his palms to aid in easing separation.”  That much I had learned from Medicus; Oenomaus’ wounds had seeped, binding to bandage for days despite the poultice meant to prevent it.

Duro gulped.  “Oh, goatfuck.”

The splash of water.  Then another.  A soft moan.

“Take hold,” Agron rumbled in direction.  He counted down in German.  A grunt of effort from Duro and then a moment of muscle-strained silence.  The soft, squeal-and-creak of wood.

The boy shrieked as Agron cursed and Duro lost his balance, thumping solidly against the stage.

“His hands are free,” Agron wheezed.  “His feet yet bound.  Duro--”

Totus and Saxa crossed the square, Lugo jogging in their wake.  “Lugo,” I began, “once the boy is free can you lift him?  See him safe beyond city’s--”

“Nasir!”

I startled, turning at the sound of Rabanus’ shout.

“You are needed!” he beckoned and I raced toward him.  Agron and Duro would follow when they were able.  In the meantime, none of us stood alone.

Rabanus took me through the maze of streets, toward the orange glow of inferno.  Ships roared -- inflamed -- in the harbor.  Crixus’ alarmingly drawn face set my heart to both clench and speed all at once, and my chest was suddenly made too small to hold its efforts.

“The Gauls and Syrians?” I prompted him, pointing to the burning ships.  Fire engulfed the timbers and fallen lumps of what could only be bodies.  The water reflected the destruction--doubling, tripling its breath-stealing horror.

“Replaced with Glaber’s fucks.”  Crixus glanced back over his shoulder.  “Who now burn.”

“A fitting fate,” I agreed despite the loss of so many weapons.  The loss was nothing when weighed against the certain loss of men sent to liberate the slaves at harbor; they would have been for the afterlife had the horn not summoned reinforcements and--

No, someone among the Brotherhood must have prepared flame and pitch beforehand and, perhaps, bow and arrows, and then waited for the soldiers to reveal themselves before setting the ships alight… but how had they known to anticipate--?  And if the ships had been filled with Roman soldiers then-- “What of the ships’ previous holds?”

“Nasir!”

This time it was Gannicus who hailed me from a sea-weathered warehouse.  He leaned in the doorway, arms speckled with blood and expression somber.  I drew sword on approach, wary of what sight could have unsettled a champion of the arena, but he offered no explanation.  No words at all.  He shook his head and stepped aside.

I moved over the threshold.  My eyes required a moment to adjust to the flickering shadows and when they did--

I gaped in horror.

Footsteps at my back.  I could not turn away from the sight of--

“Fuck the gods.”  Agron.

“Fucking slaver shit!”  Duro.

I gaped at the bodies -- twenty-one able-bodied men with their throats slit.

My gaze swept over the eleven who remained, kneeling in chains and bodies alternately matted and glistening with blood from indistinct wounds.

Jaw slack, I counted the pairs of wide, wary eyes that watched me in silence: the slender bodies of young men and women on the cusp of adulthood who would have been sold as whores, and the huddled forms of children, hardly older than I had been upon capture.

Dozens of them.

Dozens and dozens of shivering children and hunger-weakened youths… and, rather than capable warriors, I now mentored pitiful, bruised-and-bloodied men.

My new charges.  Each and every one.

I had no words.  Only despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nasir probably would have liked to hear how the harbor battle went down (Gannicus and Crixus were in charge of that), but the sight of the Syrian slaves kind of resorts his priorities, so I'll fill you in:
> 
> Gannicus, Rabanus, Litaviccus, and Tilius reconnoitered the harbor during the day and loitered in the area. The original plan was for Crixus and his Gauls (and other allies from the ludus and recent trainees like Vitus) to raid the harbor after nightfall. However, when Gannicus saw Roman soldiers replacing the slaves on board the ship (either Ashur or Marcus must have figured out that Spartacus would be coming to liberate the slaves), their plans changed. They stole jars of pitch and fanned out in the alleys. When they heard the horn blow, they figured that Spartacus had been sighted in the streets (so they knew that all the rebels were in Neapolis and backup was nearby if needed), they tossed the jars and lit the ships on fire before the soldiers could emerge onto the dock (after hearing the second horn's blow). Once the blazes were set, Crixus and Gannicus turned their attention to liberating the newly-arrived Gauls and Syrians (who were being held in warehouses) from the slavers. Gannicus and Rabanus end up finding the Syrians... and that's where Nasir comes in.


	10. Nasir’s People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: gore (injuries), implied child abuse, invasion of personal space (could be viewed as sexual harassment)

“Nasir.”

My voice crumbled against the silence and roaring flames and I struggled not to panic at the daunting task now before me.

I swallowed and gave my name a second time: “I am Nasir.”

Gannicus shifted, restless and eager to quit this scene of misery.  Eyes focused upon the stained and filthy floor, he murmured, “We did not gain entry before…”  He nodded toward the bodies of the Syrian men who appeared to have been executed as an example to all, a threat against breaking silence and daring thoughts of resistance.  Evidence of the slavers’ panic when the battle -- however brief -- had broken out.

“The slaver and guards?” I shakily asked.

“Dead.”

I did not bother to peer into pitch-black corners to seek out their forms.  More worthy matters demanded attention: “Shackles’ key?”

Gannicus passed it forward.  “I fetch Spartacus,” he quietly stated and slunk through the doorway.

“Fuck the gods,” Duro breathed, still gawking at the eerily silent children.  I had never seen him appear so utterly heartbroken.  Not even when he had been charged with holding me fast while Agron’s glowing sword had sealed my flesh.  Not even then.

I had no words to break to ease his pain.  Turning to address the would-be slaves whose skin matched the hue of mine, I repeated: “I am Nasir.  My bothers call me Nasir.”

Casting gaze about, I settled on the nearest able-bodied man.  He shivered from shock, gazing up at me from where he yet knelt, desperately uncertain.  Moving slowly, I went down upon knee before him and gestured his shackled wrists close enough to receive key.  At the scrape of iron sliding into lock, I told him, “I am Nasir.  I stand with Spartacus.  Do you understand my words?”

He gave no indication of comprehension.  He flinched as I lifted the iron away from his raw skin and tossed his bindings away.  I motioned another man forward.  I repeated my message, looking him in the eyes.

As the second man was freed, he glanced over his shoulder to the third, who asked something of me in words I did not understand, though their cadence made my heart ache with familiarity.

I told him, “Apologies.  I was taken from my home in Syria very young.  I remember little of the time before my arrival in Rome.  Native tongue has been lost to me for many years.”

The man’s expression remained dishearteningly blank.  His shackles tumbled to the floor and I moved on to the fourth.  As key again fit to lock, a shadow darkened warehouse door; Spartacus froze on the threshold, taking in the scene.  Whatever Gannicus had said to prepare him for the sight of so many devastatingly young and damaged captives had clearly not been sufficient to impart the enormity of it.

“Nasir,” Spartacus sighed helplessly, looking toward Duro and Agron for either explanation or confirmation that this was indeed the ship from Syria we had intended to free.  Though, regardless of that fact, neither Spartacus nor I would leave these people to fend for themselves.

“Spartacus,” I answered with a firm nod and a warning in my eyes that stopped the words behind his teeth.

“Adal.”

The fourth man, the one whose shackles I was in the midst of removing, cast his gaze between us and said, “I am called Adal.”

“Adal,” I answered and then promptly floundered.

He spoke: “You are the Syrian Nasir?  Of the arena?”

“I am.”  How had he heard of me?  Well, no matter.  Instead of inquiry, I gave correction: “I was.  I no longer fight in the arena.  I stand with Spartacus against Rome.”

He considered that.  Drew a slow breath.  Desired to know: “And you free our bonds to what end?”

“A thing I would discuss at length,” Spartacus replied, studying the children.  “We are at war.  If you have knowledge of ships and sailing and would return to your homeland, we shall make no move to stop you.  But if you remain on these shores, you face the will of Rome.”

Adal and a few others shuddered visibly, presumably in response to the danger encapsulated in Spartacus’ words: most of them would be quickly used and discarded; only a fortunate few would find themselves in the relative safety of households governed by gentle masters.  The visible evidence of their fear confirmed that there were some among their number who understood the common tongue.

Spartacus noticed this as well.  As did Duro, who shoulders released a measure of tension.

“All,” Spartacus continued, tone low and earnest as he gave his oath, “would be warmly received among us.”

Agron shifted, his jaw tightening and mouth drawing taut.  Yes, I understood his wordless objection.  I understood it very well: how could we feed and shelter so many unskilled young when we already struggled to feed and shelter those who held worth as warriors?  But I would make attempt.  Heart guiding hands, yes, I would make attempt to shield these lives contrary to common sense.

A sense Adal also considered: “What place do children hold in your ranks?”

Spartacus admitted, “I cannot promise safety, only the hope of a better life to come if we stand successful.”

I freed Adal’s wrists, but he did not shift far as the fifth man came forward.  Adal stared hard at Spartacus.  “Many among our number have neither home nor family to return to.”

“Then come and lend hands for bearing food and cloth.  Our camp is a fair distance and we linger overlong.”

With that, Spartacus turned toward Duro and Agron, placing a hand on their shoulders and speaking quietly.  I continued with my charge of releasing crude bonds.  Trembling hands gradually diminished in size until I tended to shackles forced upon children.

I spoke my name again and again.  Sometimes it was softly echoed in reply and another’s name given on a whisper:

“Alias.”

“Seriane.”

“Thelmenis.”

“Demetrias.”

“Oruros.”

“Cholle.”

So many tiny hands, fragile wrists, wary eyes, unsteady voices.  So very many.

Fucking Romans and their greed, their blind thirst for power over another, their fat, lazy hands practiced only in waving direction: fetch, carry, kneel, fuck.  They would even have slaves administer punishment in response to perceived wrongs.  I thought of the executioners of the arena.  I thought of Doctore’s whip upon Crixus’ bare back.

Regardless of whether Rome burned by my own hand, I would fucking watch the flames.

A touch on my shoulder and Agron’s murmur in my ears.  I barely heard the words -- an errand would take him and Duro from my side but Rabanus and Fulco remained in their stead.  I nodded and gently collected the next pair of hands.  Those of a little girl.  She watched me, poised to flee, her fingers curled tight and knuckles bloodless.

“I am called Nasir,” I rasped, forcing the words up and out.  Given the state of my shattered heart, I did not understand how my lips and tongue were not painted in blood.

“Emesa,” she answered and I somehow found a genuine smile for her.

The fires still raged in the harbor as Spartacus led the way to our next destination.

Lysandros, Vitus, and Tilius were startled by the crowd of children -- thirty-seven in number -- who followed silently in my wake.  I urged the Syrians toward the building under my friends’ charge: the city granary.  Each pair of hands was given a woven basket to carry, the smallest sharing the load between them.  I despised the necessity of working them on this night of all nights, but with so many mouths to feed…

I swallowed a sigh into my lurching belly and gestured the older youths -- twenty-six in all -- forward to each take a clay amphora of grain.  No one offered complaint.  The silence unsettled.

“You appeared shocked at the sight of us,” Adal observed from my side as the other ten potential fighters moved to retrieve loads of grain, heavy sacks double the weight of the amphorae.

“So many children,” I numbly replied.

He nodded, seeming to appreciate my honestly.  In truth, I had not the strength to concoct a lie. “You sought fighting men.”

“Yes, but we happily teach anyone who would learn.”  I told him what he surely already knew: “Roman swords care not what flesh they pierce.”

“And Spartacus?”

I twitched, startled.  “Your meaning?”

“Does he not seek to build his army?”

“He seeks volunteers to join our cause.”  I took pause, pulled muscles taut to stop the fine tremors I could feel running through my skin.  “He seeks to tear collar from the neck of every slave who would grasp freedom.  Instruction for hands as young as some of these -- it is solely for defense of one’s own life, not the open battlefield.”

Adal gave no response.  He merely stepped forward and shouldered the weight of a sack of grain.

“The Gauls?” I asked of Tilius.  “From the slaver’s ship?”  Had they been slain in the chaos, suffering a fate similar to the one met by twenty-one Syrian men?

“Crixus brought them.  They move ahead of us, bearing grain.”

Well, at least the burdens were fair.  Those who were charged with lifting sword would secure safe path.  Those with no sword would carry food and supplies.  Hard work, yes, but guaranteed rest lay at end of night’s journey.  The same could not be said for those first in line to face Roman soldiers.

I bid Tilius, Lysandros, and Vitus to set foot to path.  They did, with swords drawn.  Mine I kept sheathed and gestured my charges forward.  Rabanus and Fulco took guard at the rear, which only served to drive the children closer to my side.

“As ducklings follow their mother!” Fulco chortled absent bite.

I spun upon heel, regretfully causing several of the nearest little ones to startle, and pointed a finger over unwashed heads to bellow reply: “And you are the minnow -- mashed in beak and fed to hungry mouths, Celt!”

“Ha!” Fulco barked.  “You--”

Rabanus swatted him on the back of his bald head.  “Close fucking mouth and keep watch, fool.”

I was surprised at the next street corner: Duro and Agron guided a crowd of shell-shocked, familiar faces from a side street.  The whores.  I had never broken words on my desire to see them free of the sweaty, rancid fuck who clutched their collars in grasp, but here they were.

“The whoremonger?” I prompted.

“For the afterlife!” Duro proudly declared.  He accepted a pat on the back for his efforts.  Agron happily took a quick kiss.

The unexpected addition of so many empty hands was welcome as the night wore on and slender arms trembled under strain: amphorae and baskets shifted grasp.  Spartacus, Agron, Duro, and myself held out our hands for sleepy children as they swayed upon sore feet, their wariness forgotten in favor of brief rest taken in the cradle of our arms.

To the boy hoisted upon hip, Duro sang softly in German.  Agron petted the mussed braids of the girl draped limply over his chest, his hand keeping time.  Spartacus hummed along, swaying his charge to sleep.  I joined my whisper to Duro’s for the chorus, Emesa’s small and smelly head tucked tightly against my neck.

The moon followed our progress as we herded the Syrians through the forest.  Bare soles accustomed to sand trod upon sticks and stones, but I heard no whimpers, hisses, or cries.  Occasionally, a soft, sudden inhalation in response to sharp shock, yes, but no complaints.

Already these children had been trained to hold tongue.  As any good slave would.

Fuck the Romans _****and****_  their gods.

We rested often throughout the night, but slender limbs visibly shook with exhaustion by the time temple was within sight.  The yard had been crowded with the arrival of the Germans but now it was additionally packed with Gauls.  Not a child among them.

I called for Santos and bid him bring assistance in seeing grain to storage and then I asked Mira to attend the Syrians regarding fresh water, food, and bath.  I could not care for all of them myself.  Not yet.  Just… I required brief respite before I… oh, gods save me.

The sight of dried blood upon the skin of one Syrian man provided excuse for a moment apart.  I set foot toward infirmary to collect cut cloth and vinegar for cleaning wounds.

As I passed by, I glimpsed the weapons cache filled to the brim with Roman blades, all gathered from the soldiers we had felled in the forest and upon city streets.  Such had been our intent from the very start: a stealthy raid to free one ship carrying fierce enemies of Rome and alert Glaber to our presence; allow time for the praetor to send more armed men to defend Neapolis and prepare trap for our capture; elicit assistance from our new brothers to raid the city, relieve Roman soldiers of weapons, and free another ship, perhaps two.  As many as time and opportunity permitted.

Additional fighters and weapons to aid our stand against Rome.  So stood the plan I had proposed to Spartacus the night following retrieval of Oenomaus and myself from the arena.  And how that strategy had yielded: three ships taken.  Three ships of lives and hands removed from Roman whim.

But so many children.  So many in need of protection.  So many who could not possibly count themselves among us in battle.  The burden weighed upon my shoulders until I was forced to take pause and lean against corridor’s wall, out of sight from those dark, watchful eyes.

Surely this stood the will of Roman gods: the gain of strength and weakness in equal measure.  Fuck them all to piss and shit.

Drawing a slow breath, I sought a solution.

The sound of Lucius’ voice echoing from the portico reminded me: bows and arrows.  Arrows.  The crafting of needful arrows.  Small hands could manage that much.  And in removing the task from others, it would allow time for those strong enough to fight to be given additional training.

Yes.  Good.  A thing I could offer: daily food and a measure of protection in exchange for attention to simple chores and manufacture of arrows.  These children would prove great asset.

I looked in on Medicus, wincing and forcing back bile as the man worked to slide and snap splintered bone into place.  The boy’s right hand -- his palm was torn nearly beyond recognition.  I was grateful the young man appeared insensate to the disturbance; his eyes were closed in slumber gained either from exhaustion or herbs.

The medicus’ grizzled head did not turn from task at my arrival.  “You are the one I have to thank for keeping me from a full night’s rest?”

“Do not,” I choked out.  “He is -- do not.”

Medicus looked up, sneer sliding from his features.  I had not seen sympathy from him since his attention to Naevia following her rescue, and I had never endured its focus upon me.  I looked away; his sarcasm was preferable by far.  “Apologies,” he softly spoke.  “I shall commit my fullest efforts.”

“As you ever do,” I acknowledged.  “Gratitude.”

“Well.  Certainly, life beyond these four walls holds no interest for a man of my skills.”

I grinned helplessly at his irritated nattering.  He could complain all he liked, but he had permitted me to see his depth of devotion toward preserving life.  “There are injured men in the yard.  I know not the extent of wounds.  I would save you time and effort…”  I gestured toward the pile of cut cloth and a half-full jar of vinegar.

“Eh, take it,” he dismissed with a roll of his head.  “You will do as you wish regardless of my counsel.”

“Those requiring stitches I will humbly offer into your care.  Have we poultice for wounds?  Bandages?”

“Yes, yes, of course.  Bring them here for treatment.”

“And further delay your well-earned rest?”

“And by what authority would you deem it such?  Bossy fuck of a Syrian.”

I departed on a much-needed laugh.

Walking past the bath, I glimpsed it filled to capacity: Naevia and Mira directing with smiles and gesturing hands for the older girls to wash themselves and assist a younger partner.

On temple portico, Spartacus acted as assistant to Euclid, dishing out porridge for the Syrian boys.  The boy currently receiving food nearly dropped his bowl, twitching hard when Crixus and Liscus roared incomprehensibly at a pair of recently liberated Gauls.  They bellowed and gesticulated until both ragged-looking men washed their used bowls and spoons before moodily returning the items to cook pot’s neighboring table.  Spartacus thanked them for their efforts and then passed a clean bowl to Euclid for filling.

Duro was wandering among the Germans, pausing to remark on wounds gained in battle or share a joke.  Agron patrolled the invisible line between his charges and mine, pausing to gesture returning children to sit upon pallet and eat.  My heart swelled to aching; that my lover would accept this burden in addition to his other duties…

Drawing a measured breath, I called to Adal, waved him and the ten others who had been made to kneel in expectation of death in filthy fucking warehouse to gather at the water cache.  I bid them hold torches aloft in turn as I cleansed their wounds.

The girls emerged from the bath to take meal.  Lysandros patted my shoulder in passing as he, Tilius, and Vitus led the Syrian boys up temple steps to take their place.  When an unknown Gaul moved to teasingly tug on a girl’s braids, Mannus slapped his hand away with a skin-blistering reprimand.  As Mannus looked up, our gazes met and I nodded my thanks.

It was nearly dawn before all were put to bed, but no one had fallen to slumber absent either food in belly or treatment of wound.  I collapsed upon the temple steps, knees upon elbows and head in hands.

Footsteps on stone.

A warm arm slid over my shoulders: Agron.

An open hand upon my hair, fingers squeezing playfully at the blood-stiffened locks: Duro.

I sighed-chuckled-hummed.  Words.  I ought to give them words.  Gratitude at the very least.  But I was too thoroughly sapped of strength to recall how to form utterance.

“You stink,” Duro informed me blithely.  “Go with Agron and wash.  Or else I shall have to listen to his grumbling all fucking day long.”

Agron snorted, leaned toward my ear, and loudly whispered, “Notice that Duro would offer no objection to stench.  The swine fuck.”

“Goat piss,” Duro mildly accused in exchange.  “How am I at fault if my shit smells of spring breezes and apple blossoms?”

My shoulders shook with silent laughter as Agron nudged me to my feet.  It was not until I stood in the over-used bath that I realized my eyes burned and tears poured over my chilled cheeks.  Agron gathered me close and kissed my matted hair.  Despite the fact that I most certainly did reek of sweat and blood and smoke and saltwater-rotted filth.

“Seventy-four,” I panted against his chest.  Seventy-four Syrians, many of whom were ignorant of both common tongue and Roman ways.  A mere eleven of those stood capable of soon grasping sword.  Fuck.  “How do I lead them all?”

“You already do,” he consoled.  “They but await kind smile and welcome gesture.”

I did not believe it could be so simple.

Agron’s hands chafed my arms.  “You will see,” he insisted.  “You will see.”

I did.  We all rose late, but much was accomplished despite the short day.

I assigned each child to a freed man or woman for the purpose of learning chores.

Lucius spent the afternoon teaching the older youths and freed whores the bow, then volunteered his evening to gather the children close for a lesson in crafting arrows.

I tested the men whose wounds allowed for training.

Crixus took the newly-liberated Gauls -- far too large a group to stand shoulder to shoulder in yard -- beyond temple wall for their tests and training.

Following daily exercise, Duro and Agron bid the Germans to hunt again.

Over a dozen men bearing the mark of the Brotherhood raided distant roads, a task that would become an almost daily necessity with so many bodies to clothe and mouths to feed.

Before evening meal, I settled the children upon pallets under temple roof to nap and then my feet took me on familiar path to infirmary.

“He yet slumbers,” I quietly observed from threshold.

“You’ve a keen eye,” Medicus jeered, his voice gruff from long hours of tending wounds.  Eventually, even the most stubborn Germans had been sent here to receive needful attention.  How many wounds had this man cleansed and stitched and bound in poultice since he last took rest?  Even I, who prided myself on swift calculation and precise memory, could not have kept count.

“Did he wake?”

“Twice.  But I would have him sleep through the worst of the pain.  We will not know for some days if his hand can be saved.”  Medicus passed a wet cloth over the boy’s fevered brow and cheeks.  “Poor little fuck.”

“He was a whore,” I retorted sharply.

“A wretched fate,” the medicus replied, offering the closest words to apology that he would dare, and I was unsure if he spoke of the boy’s occupation, his misfortune in drawing my attention, or the nail-and-cross that might yet claim his dominant hand.  Perhaps all three.

“He will walk?”

“Perhaps.  Not for some weeks.”

My jaw clenched.  I wet my lips.  I did not know how to leave without being dismissed.  “I never gave him my name.  Or requested his.”

Medicus looked up.  “Simon.”

“Pardon?”

He nodded toward his charge.  “I save you the coin it would cost to know it: he is called Simon.”

I breathed easier.  “When he next wakes, will you tell him his companions from the whorehouse are here as well?”

“Having exchanged seedy drunkards for brutish fucks?”

Rage roared beneath my skin.  “Do you hold intent to antagonize, old man?”

His lips quirked.

Ah, yes.  That was precisely the case -- because my brothers called me Nasir and Nasir stood a warrior and not a heartbroken house slave.  A fact Medicus would have me remember.  I stated, “Any man who dares to touch what is not freely offered will find his belly at the end of a blade.  If not mine, then Agron’s or Duro’s or Crixus’.”

“Or Spartacus’,” Medicus added knowingly.

“Yes.”  I was alarmed to have overlooked him, and I was consumed with a sudden need to seek him out for conference.

I crossed paths with Crixus first.  He was pointing the mercilessly worked Gauls toward the water cache just as I exited temple on Mira’s direction to seek Spartacus beyond the gate.

Crixus hailed me.  “Nasir, have you heard tell of our prisoners?”

I had not.  Smirking, he led me into temple’s basement where I gaped at the pair of men bound and blinded with cloth.  In one corner sat Glaber’s tribune: Primus Centurion _****Marcus.****_   In the opposite corner sat--

“Ashur.”  My lip curled.  Saliva filled my mouth, but I did not spit upon him.  He did not deserve even that much recognition.

The man’s head snapped up at the sound of his name.  “Is that my brother Nasir?”

“No,” I replied through a sneer.  “You are no one’s brother.”

I spun away from both him and a rigidly posed Marcus, who held unshaven chin high above bruised throat, and sought to escape the memories evoked by the mere sight of them both.  Crixus paused long enough to offer gratitude to stationed guards, Tychos and Sophus, allowing me a moment to gulp fresh air at the top of cellar steps before approaching.

He did not offer apologies for the shock.  “You spoke truth, Syrian.”

“How is that?” I eagerly requested to know.  Anything to distract myself from echoes of capture in Atella and memories of torment in Capua.

Crixus chuckled.  “He was found with hands wrapped around that Roman fuck’s neck in attempt to silence horn’s blow.”

I blinked.  My lips curved.  “Fuck.  He does fall to honor.”

Marcus had done his sworn duty in battle: he’d blown horn to alert his forces to Spartacus’ arrival in city square, but when the first trumpet’s sound had gone unanswered, the primus centurion had summoned his courage to produce another.  A signal to men stationed at the wharf, who would heed a second call.  Marcus had performed this charge despite the fact that a repeat of horn’s clear, carrying tone would surely guarantee discovery of position.  A position he shared with a treacherous Syrian.

The moment Marcus had accepted his own death for the sake of honor, Ashur had attacked to preserve his own life.

Too little effort too late.  Their post had been revealed nonetheless.

“And now?” I asked of Crixus.

He glanced down at my bandaged arm.  “You would not claim a measure of his flesh in payment?”

I considered it.  Shook my head.  “I would devote my energies to those who would benefit from my efforts.  Do with him as you like.”

“I intend to.”  Lips twisted with bloodlust, Crixus reached for the leather pouch at his belt and retrieved four long, iron nails.  “Taken from the last man to suffer at that fuck’s whim.”

I stared, convinced I could yet see Simon’s blood upon the crudely wrought metal.  “I would make request.”

“Speak it.”

“I would inquire of that man -- Simon -- if he holds desire to bear witness.”

Crixus nodded.

“And,” I quickly asked a second favor, “I would ask to be given warning so that I might remove the children from vicinity.  They will not understand.”

“It will be so.”  With a nod in parting, Crixus headed for the portico and his charges, who I could hear tussling and splashing in the yard beyond.

I lingered in the hallway, still stunned.  Ashur now sat bound in the dirt beneath temple floor at the mercy of those he had most grievously wronged, never to inflict pain or threat of death upon another again.  Ashur was bound for the cross… but only if he was very fortunate.  Crixus had invited me to claim a measure of blood and vengeance.  I was surely not the only one who held that right.

Naevia.  She immediately came to mind.  And I did not have to ask what pieces of him she would put under the blade.

My conviction wavered as temptation urged me to accept invitation, but suddenly I thought of Varro.  My friend and brother.  I thought of the pleasure taken by the Romans who had tortured him.

My fists clenched.  No, I would not count myself among their number.

Let Naevia have Ashur’s blood.  If it saw her spirit strengthened, I would not begrudge her, but I would not lend hands to venture.  So long as Ashur was rendered impotent of causing additional harm, I was satisfied.

I found Spartacus in Libo’s pasture, instructing both horses and riders in cavalry maneuvers.

“Do they break for rest soon?” I asked of Libo and he nodded.

“Yes, I believe this is the last sortie.”

It was.  When Spartacus kneed his mount toward the old man and slid from the animal’s back, Libo took command, instructing the men and women on seeing to the care of their respective horses.

“Nasir,” Spartacus greeted with a faint grin.  “The very man I wished to see.”

I spread my arms.  “You cast gaze upon my form and then dismiss me?”

He chuckled.  “No.  Rather, I have a venture in mind that I would break words on.”

“I but await thought given voice.”

“At a distance,” he requested, gesturing me aside and away from curious ears.  “Captives were taken in Neapolis.”

“Yes.  So I have seen with my own eyes.”

“Do you participate in Ashur’s end?”

“No, but there is another who may wish it.  I have bid Crixus pause until choice is presented and reply given.”

Spartacus squinted in thought.

“You stand surprised.”

The Thracian tilted his head.  “Agron and Duro may offer argument to sway your stance.”

Jaw clenched, I turned my gaze toward the forest.  Near the treeline, my Germans lazily butchered the day’s kills.  Even Sedullus appeared at ease, chuckling and offering assistance with skinning the largest animal.  The combination of Duro’s keen sense of camaraderie and recently spilled Roman blood pleased the sullen man and soothed his delicate ego.

Releasing a breath, I told Spartacus, “I witnessed--”  I choked, throat snapping shut.  “Varro.”  My lips pursed over gritted teeth.  My eyes glared beneath scrunched brow but my vision was empty of color or shape.

A hand on my shoulder.  Spartacus pulled me back to the moment.  “Yes,” he said simply.  “Varro.”  He looked across the field just as Agron threw back his had and laughed, wagging a knife at a smug-looking Saxa.  Even straining, I could barely hear the familiar roll of his mirth.  Spartacus continued, “I will ask Crixus to take Ashur elsewhere for execution.”

The only possible impediment to that course being Simon’s wounds.  Well.  It was an issue to be addressed should the young man wish to take part in his accuser’s end.

“But that is not what I would discuss,” Spartacus said.

I guessed: “But not unrelated to the captives?  Specifically Glaber’s tribune and how he may contribute to our aims?”

He clearly approved of the swiftness with which I followed his thoughts.  Agron, Duro, and Crixus would require many more details before reaching such a conclusion.  “Indeed.  But first I would ask for your impression of the man and his value to Glaber.”

I smirked.  “I witnessed their interaction only once--”  As I had been presented to the praetor in ludus yard beside Pyrrhus, knees in the dust and blood upon thoughts.  “--but Glaber was openly fond of him and welcomed his counsel.”  Brow quirked, I wryly added, “Perhaps more than that of his own wife.”

“Excellent,” Spartacus murmured.

I startled.  Blurted: “You would claim him as hostage.”

“And exchange him for weapons.”

“Weapons we do not require,” I drawled, comprehending the Thracian’s underlying cunning.  Yes, we would give Glaber the impression that we stood in desperate need of arms -- the swords and knives taken from the fallen soldiers in and around Neapolis would be blamed on local thieves and scavengers -- and arrange a location for exchange.  A location of our choosing and Glaber’s disadvantage.

Spartacus continued, “I will state intent to allow three men to accompany me and permit Glaber the same.”

“Terms he will not hold to.”

“I count on it.”

I could see that he did.  “You speak of open battle.”  Our first.

“Yes.  And soon.”

“Who do you send to Capua?”

“Lucius has already voiced desire for that role.”  At my frown, Spartacus patted my shoulder.  “Do not concern yourself.  He will not make the journey alone or absent aid.  Our position here and Lucius’ life shall remain well protected.”

“I would offer assistance should my Syrian charges permit it of me.”

“Of course.”

We turned toward the temple gate, but I paused.  Spartacus halted and looked to me, waited for me to speak.

“I knew of our position near Vesuvius and plans for Neapolis when held prisoner by Glaber.”  I shook my head in genuine bafflement.  “Yet you did not shift location or alter intent.  A great risk.”

Spartacus hummed.  “There was a time I believed you might break confidence to see another’s pain lessened or their safety secured.”

And if Romans could be trusted to keep their word, perhaps I would have given it consideration.

“But not at the cost of your people,” Spartacus confided.  “You have never been a risk, Nasir.  I would say that, far from being misplaced, faith in you has been the greatest constant upon which we all depend.”

I shook my head.  “You underestimate the stupidity and pride of Romans.”

The Thracian laughed.  The hand upon my shoulder squeezed.  “For the sake of coming venture, I sincerely hope so, brother.”  We exchanged a pair of wide grins before he jerked his chin toward the hunting party as they cleaned up the site.  “Spare a moment for your Germans.  I shall attend your kinsmen and see them to food and comfort.”

“And then permit Mira to see to yours?” I needled and he ruefully agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adal is actually shown as being Hispanic (or an Iberian is what I think he’d be called) on Spartacus Wiki (Lydon is also from Hispania), but I decided to relocate him to Syria for this fic rather than create a completely new original character. There just aren’t enough Syrians for me to play with, OK? OK.
> 
> Speaking of Syrians, the names used in this chapter are all the names of cities I read on a map of ancient Syria (how “ancient” I cannot say) here -- http://www.forumancientcoins.com/Articles/Maps/images/Map_Ancient_Syria_1900pix.jpg -- and you might notice there’s a town called “Sura” and another called “Melita” (with one “t”). Hmmm…
> 
> When I wrote Nasir and Crixus’ first encounter back in “The Brotherhood” and Nasir’s insistence that Ashur would meet his demise due to honor (because he would never expect it), I had no idea how that was going to happen in this fic series… and then I realized that the TV show actually gives the perfect scenario. Of course, in the TV show, Ashur kills Marcus (in the woods beyond the mines) before Marcus can reveal their position to Spartacus, but Marcus isn’t wounded beforehand this time around and even though Ashur’s attack is a surprise, it doesn’t kill him.
> 
> Interestingly, Nasir no longer wants a moment alone with Ashur. (You might remember back at the end of Part 5: The Path when Agron saw Nasir’s mutilated forearm and was all, "I will--" and Nasir cut him off with: "NO. I WILL.") Nasir is still plenty angry over Ashur’s role in torturing him, but he’s determined to focus that energy toward caring for the people who need him now. Of all the rebels, I think Nasir and Oenomaus (and possibly Lugo) have the greatest capacity for turning their own thirst for revenge into the exact opposite: a fountain that sustains friends and allies.
> 
> ALSO!! Important note here: from this point onward, I’ll be taking historical accounts of the Third Serville War into consideration (but I may decide to disregard them and go Flaming Full-On AU) so, when it comes to battles and the movements of Spartacus’ followers, things may not line up neatly with the TV show. Just so you know.


	11. First Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: DEATH (including the violent death of very young individuals), GORE (battle, butchering boar meat), SEXYTIMES
> 
> Music rec: “Feeding Fires” by Devin Riggins feat. Anica

Glaber.

Concealed among trees, I watched him accompany wagon’s approach to Atella with aim of satisfying Spartacus’ demand: a wagon weighted with weapons in exchange for safe return of Glaber’s tribune.

Against my elbow, Agron’s arm jerked.  We stared straight ahead, unblinking, as the praetor and the three men assigned to his side made way upon the dusty road toward open city gate.

I would have been there.  I would have stood within those walls at Spartacus’ side had the need to remain with my Germans -- and the necessity of overseeing their countrymen’s efforts -- not been overwhelming.  I had sworn an oath to Agron and Duro that we three would not be parted at times of perilous venture and, as their place was here among the ranks, so too was mine.

After I had shown Mira, Naevia, and their respective teams of archers to safe concealment and clear view of Atella’s square, I had retreated to the woods, pausing only to clasp Spartacus’ arm and nod to the men who stood with him this day: Gannicus, Crixus, and Rabanus.

“You are certain?” Agron had checked, hesitating in one of Atella’s many night-shrouded alleys.

I had scoffed.  “Your skill with thrown spear far exceeds mine with a bow.  Are _****you****_  certain?”

Pressing lips to my temple, he’d grinned widely at my meaning; I would not permit him to stand beside Spartacus absent both Duro and myself, and as Duro refused to leave Sedullus in sole command of their kin, the choice was made for us both.

At least Spartacus had heeded my counsel regarding the necessity of archers: “Glaber is a fool, but even fools can mimic successful military strategy.”  My argument had consisted solely of well-known account of the Trojan Horse.

Though Spartacus was not possessed of great ego, he did acknowledge Glaber’s mania in procuring his defeat.  But at the cost of Marcus’ life?

Well, as it was now dawn and the caravan moments from entering the city, we would soon discover whether Glaber stood a man of his word.

I was not alone in holding low expectations of that Roman’s honor.  We had gathered our forces -- Germans concealed in the woods north of roadside and Gauls, led by Crixus’ allies, hidden along south -- in anticipation of arriving army.  Only the creak and rattle of wagon disturbed the hush… and then even that fell silent.

A faint call reverberated against walls: “Spartacus!”

But then… nothing.  All activity quieted.

Ears straining, we tensed for the sound of footsteps approaching with the dawn.

This dawn--so different from the one before:

I had awakened beneath brightening sky to teasing touch upon bare instep and soft giggles.  Feigning slumber, I had waited for curious fingers to make second attempt and, when they had, my toes had curled with comic exaggeration.  More giggles.  At the third touch, I’d lunged up from pallet, dislodging Agron’s arm, and scooped up the guilty child.  Agron had shot upright as I’d thrown the squirming boy upon shoulder and clamped arm around his skinny legs.  His conspirators had startled back on fearful gasps that had swiftly spiraled into soft laughter as I’d mercilessly tickled back of captive’s knees.  Agron had stuck a finger in the boy’s face, expression mockingly stern.

With a quick kiss to lover’s lips, I’d encouraged Agron to enjoy a moment more of rest, which he’d done with both hands pressed over his eyes as he’d flopped back onto pallet, and then I’d herded my charges -- six daring souls in all -- toward the water cache to rinse hands, face, and mouth.  Nearly a dozen other children who had been inconspicuously watching events unfold from their pallets had risen only when it had been made clear that food rather than punishment would be given.

Once bellies had been filled, I’d set hands to work making arrows.  Those very arrows now rested in a dozen quivers within Atella, awaiting opportunity to fly.

Overhead, the flap-and-flutter of feathered wings.

A jarringly proud chirp.

A puff of breeze.

Rustling leaves.

We waited.

I envied Mira’s position so near decisive action, not only today but when she’d shadowed Lucius on errand to Capua.  Mira, Lysandros, Vitus, and Tilius, all tireless runners and skilled with bow and arrow.  They had been the clear choice, of course.  Still, I would have gladly taken part.

Although, my hands might yet participate in grand effort should Glaber betray his own word and--

Distant shouts -- men’s voices.

Soft, tinny clangs -- swords meeting in combat.

Fuck.  Grip tightened upon sword’s pommel.

Agron’s arm flexed with the same motion.

How many men did our brothers-in-arms face?  Did arrows find their mark?  Was--

A Roman horn blasted past walls and over countryside.

Agron jerked at the noise.

“Goatfuck,” Duro contributed with uncanny accuracy.

I pivoted to scan the forested slope at our backs.  Nothing.

Swiveling back toward the road, I heard it: footsteps upon packed earth.  Glaber’s army advanced brazenly upon the road.

My lips stretched into a mockery of a grin, teeth gritted and gaze trained upon enemy’s advance.  On Duro’s other side, Sedullus shifted.  Duro patted his arm and hissed sense at the man in German.  Words I still could not untangle from one another, but he undoubtedly reminded the man that we must wait.

_****Wait and let the fucks trap themselves between Atella’s walls and our blades!** ** _

As the first phalanx came into sight, I began count.

One hundred… two… three… four… five…

Keeping to the tangles of brush, I shifted up to better gauge the number yet to pass…

And found none.

Looking to Agron, I nodded.  He tapped Duro’s shoulder and Duro in turn tapped Sedullus’ and so on down the lines.  On the count of twenty, Duro and Sedullus surged to their feet, roaring a battle cry to which Agron and I quickly lent our voices.

From the opposite slope, the Gauls launched silent attack while the Roman soldiers stood transfixed at our commotion.  Our shouts drowned out Roman commands and, in the midst of the soldiers’ helpless confusion, we rushed to claim blood.

So much blood.

I did not realize until the bodies lay upon the blood-smeared road at our feet that Glaber’s army had been little more than a hastily scrambled militia.  The sons of farmers and street vendors, the vast majority of them utterly ignorant of war.

The Gauls celebrated our victory.

The Germans crowed as champions.

My horrified gaze skipped from one smooth-skinned face to another, noting the absence of scars gained in battle, and my heart sank further and further into disgust and disappointment.

We had faced a greater challenge at Neapolis.

“Nasir?” Agron prompted, smile sliding from his features and I despised myself for being the cause.

I shook my head, but he would not be swayed from hearing my thoughts.  I was searching for words that would not diminish the risk we had taken in the morning’s assault -- untrained hands could still hold sharpened spear at angle required to impale a man -- when Spartacus made his way toward us, striding between the lines of his cheering forces and over Roman bodies.  As Agron, Duro, and I stood at the far end of the conflict -- with Liscus and Rhaskos assuming command at its center -- we were the last to receive Spartacus’ assessment.

His somber expression -- blood spattered and streaked with sweat -- reminded me of that moment in the house of Batiatus as Agron had carried me toward infirmary and corpses cooled upon floor.

“Glaber?” I asked.

“In the grasp of Tartarus.”

“Vengeance is done,” I congratulated him.  Neither one of us smiled.

He looked down into the empty gaze of a youth who could not have seen more than sixteen summers.  He’d likely been told he would be home in a few days’ time.  His task: curtail a simple slave rebellion -- quickly quelled and Roman order restored.  What had he planned to do with his pay, the few coins Glaber would have owed him, an untrained infantryman?

I sighed.

Spartacus reached out and caught my arm in commiseration as Agron scowled at us.

“The two of you speak in fucking silence,” he snarled and I could not blame him for his temper.  His joy diving and twisting into frustration.

“This is no army,” Spartacus replied quietly, mindful of Lugo’s booming laugh and Duro’s whoops and Sedullus’ prideful roar.

Agron’s mouth tightened.  “It’s no fucking Roman celebration, either.”

“These men--”

“Boys,” I heard myself interject, sorrow cresting as tide of bloodlust waned.

Spartacus tilted his head to the side, accepting the correction.  “These boys were never trained to be soldiers.”

We stood victorious over unskilled, beardless youths.

A fucking hollow victory.

Glaber’s final revenge upon us.

Agron glared from Spartacus to me and back to the Thracian again.  Leaning close, he tersely spat, “We risked our lives this day.  You might hold fucking tongue on pity for Roman shit and offer gratitude to your own fucking army.”

Before I could assure him that he had mistaken my meaning, Agron spun on his heel to seek Duro’s side.  I could not see Agron’s expression, but Duro smiled at him as though nothing were amiss.  It was only when he looked beyond his brother’s shoulder toward me that his smile twitched and flipped into a questioning frown.

I spun away.

“Does Marcus yet draw breath?” I inquired of Spartacus.

“No.”

“By whose hand?”

“Rabanus’.”  At my arched brow, Spartacus obliquely elaborated: “He was among the first to volunteer for venture to Capua’s arena.”

I snorted in disbelief.

“To my memory,” the Thracian added, “he has never been prouder of a student under his tutelage.”

“How many students does he count?”

“I shall leave you to pose that question.”

Which I most certainly would not.  Well, not without weapon in firm grasp.

I dutifully collected spears from the fallen and began the trek back to temple.  Gauls and Germans alike lingered upon the road to retrieve armor to fit forearms, shoulders, and shins.  Given the slender build of these too-young enemy soldiers, a chest plate of suitable dimensions would be difficult to acquire for most of the men among our ranks.  I assumed Crixus, Agron, and Duro remained to settle petty disputes over those items.

Naevia and Mira glimpsed me as they led their teams through the woods.  Mira frowned, perhaps surprised to see me absent Germans.  Naevia drew close enough to wrap an arm around my waist despite unwieldy bulk of the spears I carried.  How confident she stood in the aftermath of bloodletting.

The day before she had appeared much the same.  Ashur had been escorted from temple cellar through the tunnel dug by rebel hands.  Crixus had selected a site downwind and sheltered by mountain slope.  Naevia had washed her hands and arms clean of blood before returning to temple yard beaming a ferociously accomplished grin.

Celebration had been postponed due to Lucius’ return and the need to prepare for Spartacus’ meeting with Glaber and possible battle.  Regardless, camp atmosphere had lightened considerably in the wake of Ashur’s demise, much to the befuddlement of both liberated Germans and Gauls, to which invitation had not been extended.

That night, the very air had been made crisper and the stars brighter with the knowledge that another shadow had passed from thought.  From the look of her just this morning, Naevia stood more than ready to drink to the treacherous fuck’s doom.

Now, however, she applied single-minded focus to searching my face, seeking the source of my troubles.

“Nasir,” she began, “Agron and Duro do not…?”

It pained me to see her visibly hesitate over which words to break.  I quickly deflected awkward inquiries: “A difference of opinion.  It shall resolve itself in time.”

“Should time in sufficient quantity elude,” Mira called merrily, “then surely a spear will see your point made.”

“You’ve several to choose from at least,” Naevia jested, nudging her chin toward the bundle in my grasp.

“Indeed I do.”  Both women accepted my lighthearted reply and instead of requesting an account of the battle upon the road -- a story that would inevitably become more convoluted with each retelling before night’s end -- they told me of events within Atella’s walls: the banter between Glaber and Spartacus, the soldiers bursting from within wagon and knocking Rabanus flat upon back, arrows screaming through the air, horn’s blow--

Both women gloried in having found an attentive audience in me.

I did not ask how Marcus had come to meet his end at Rabanus’ hands.  I would pose that question to the Sardinian himself.

“Thank the gods you return,” Lucius greeted me from where he perched upon top of temple wall.  “Your rabble grow restless.”

I could not help but smile.  “You make assumption I hold skill required to quiet them.”

Though Mira and Naevia laughed at the jest, I was suddenly consumed with memory of Agron and Duro soothing ragged, boisterous Germans during the rain-drenched trek from Neapolis.

Lucius rolled his eyes.  “What use are you then?”

I could think of no ready alternative.

I stood grateful for the smiles I received from the children, their faces lighting up upon sight of me.  Oenomaus appeared relieved as well.

“I would not have inconvenienced you with seeing to bath and bedtime,” I teased him as I passed out the spears for cleaning.

Oenomaus’ shoulders jerked with amusement.  “I doubt they would heed any direction other than yours in that regard.”

Squinting in consideration, I guessed: “Your hand misses the whip.”

This time he did release a soft bark of laughter.  “There are moments.”

“I did not note any man of the Brotherhood among the day’s losses,” I informed and he thanked me with a nod.

I stored the now-polished spears and sent the children off to collect midday meal before the pot was emptied by ravenous warriors, the first wave of which were undoubtedly nearing temple sanctuary.

At the sound of their jolly and jubilant return, I retreated to infirmary to warn Medicus of additional patients and discovered Simon awake and alert.  His gaze fixed upon me.

Though I had intended to break words with him regarding Ashur’s end, it had been Naevia who -- as Medicus’ acting assistant -- had seized opportunity while duties had claimed my time.

The previous morning, when Crixus had discretely moved to gather those among the Brotherhood and the former slaves of Batiatus’ domus who held grievance with Ashur, I’d paused beside Naevia, my gaze drawn by the gleam of morning light upon the knife’s edge she sharpened with slow passes of whet stone.

“Nasir,” she had greeted with a delighted smile.  “Show me again the way to separate a man from his cock.”

My laughter had been caught somewhere between humor and horror, but I had obliged.  As a group had left to scout a suitable area and cut wood for a cross, I had inquired, “Does Simon hold desire to witness the Syrian’s end?”

Naevia had hesitated.  “…no.”

She had not hesitated to select a knife, hone its edge, or request instruction on brutally gelding a man, but at that moment -- in making reply to voiced query -- she had paused.  I had thought it odd, yes, though I had not remarked upon it.

I should have.

Simon’s lips curled into a sneer.  “I knew you were no slaver.”

Medicus looked from his patient to me before he squeezed himself over threshold on muttered excuse of claiming food: “Before those noisy, self-important fucks devour it all.”

My belly cramped, but not from hunger.  I stared at Simon, suddenly seeing this moment in reverse and from a great distance: Spartacus hesitating at cage door, two bowls of porridge in grasp.

My empty hands twitched.  I heard myself ask, “May I enter?”

Simon huffed with misplaced humor.  “The Syrian Nasir of Capua’s arena asks me if he may enter.”

“Yes.  He does.”

The young man shook his head, his curls limp with sweat and days spent in fevered slumber.  “You fuck,” he choked out and I felt my own throat tighten.

No, this young man did not hold Ashur accountable for injury.  He would place blame upon a different Syrian.

He snarled, “You dare ask more of me.”

An error I would not repeat.

I stepped back in silence and followed the corridor toward basement steps.  Meat awaiting butcher’s blade swayed upon rope from ceiling beam.  These beams -- these long measures of solid wood -- spanned underside of temple floor.  Remove one support and the building would yet stand.  Remove two or three and the entire structure would crumble.

I ducked past the curtain concealing newly dug tunnel.  Followed its path.  Paused at its exit.  Though I could see no one beyond the cover of brush that had been placed to conceal tunnel opening and though I could hear no one nearby, I crouched just beyond reach of sunlight, lowered face to hands and breathed.

Breathed, breathed, breathed.

Glaber was dead.  Good.  Very well.  Rome would soon send another praetor to subdue us.

The bodies of Glaber’s militia rotted in the road to Atella.  Would the next Roman force be composed of boys younger yet or old men?  Fellow slaves?

Did any of it hold meaning?

Simon’s pain and accusation…

Agron’s anger…

Duro’s confusion…

The certainty that everything I touched would sour given time.

Concern for my Syrian charges drew me back -- there was mischief that rambunctious, returning victors-of-battle might cause.  I had failed so many today; I would not fail those who yet held some measure of faith me.

“Nasir?”

I paused, curtain pushed aside and one foot in temple basement.  I looked up.  Fuck.

“Duro,” I greeted and quickly offered something that might be convincingly cheerful: “Battle was well fought.”

He lowered the knife he’d been using to slice cuts of meat from the hanging boar.  There was no smile upon his boyish face now.  “Do you lie to me now, little brother?”

I had no notion of his meaning.

One side of his mouth kicked up.  He nodded toward the passageway leading from cellar to temple.  “You can fool those simple shits, but today--that was no battle.”

“No,” I concurred.  “It was not.”

The silence that stretched out between us pulled at my skin, heart, lungs.

He said, “Agron desires to break words.”

I nodded but made no move to see to task.

Duro tossed his knife down upon half-filled clay platter and moved toward me.  His arms snaked around my shoulders and I had no strength remaining to resist embrace.  He smelled of sweat and dried violence, dirt and forest detritus.  I leaned my jaw against his arm.

“Angry idiot,” Duro suddenly muttered and, for a moment, I believed he directed insult toward me.  “That is the meaning of my brother’s name -- east of the Rhine.”

I snorted, leaned back, and let Duro’s irreverent grin pull a rueful smile from me.  “He had cause.”

“Well,” Duro drawled, “had he, I would bet it easily tumbled from grasp.”  Duro’s expression sobered.  “It was fucking good as lost the moment you slipped from sight.”

Words evaded tongue.  I stepped away but found no escape from Duro’s forthright stare save the tunnel at my back.  “I would remain here a while else the children suffer for my foul mood.”

Duro tensed.  “What did my stupid fuck of a brother say?”

“No!  He--”  I lifted palms, pressing heel of hands to eyes.  Hissed through my teeth.  “My irritation draws strength from another matter.”

Duro waited for me to speak of it.  When it became clear that I held no desire to break words on it, he sighed gustily.  “Well.  Were I you, I would seek out Agron regardless.  The moronic goat feels so wretched at the discord between you two that you could surely best him a dozen times over in combat.”

I smacked Duro’s arm.  “You forget so soon that I best him daily?”

He giggled.  “As his memory is far worse than mine, I am certain it has slipped his mind.”

“Remove yourself from sight before I slip you onto this fucking floor.”

With a brusque pat to my back, Duro retreated to scoop up platter and knife.  Pausing at corridor’s entrance, he informed: “Savor your moment, little brother, for as soon as I deliver this pitiful offering at fireside, a man far more determined will descend in my place.”

From the almost stern tilt to his shaggy brows, I could very well guess who that man would be.  Duro took his leave, and I found myself gazing upon what remained of the hunting party’s most recent efforts, feeling an inexplicable kinship with the lump of flesh.  I felt sliced and bloodless.  Bound and helpless.

“Fuck,” I sighed and made for cellar passageway.  Whether I sought to confront Agron or avoid him, I knew not.  As I turned the corner and smacked into a solid, advancing form, my dilemma was made void.

“Nasir--”

“Agron, apologies for--”

His mouth upon mine and his form crowding me against wall belayed further words.  My hands lifted to his jaw and nape, urged him closer.  His mouth devoured my intent, breaking from heated kisses to exhale: “It is I who owe apologies.”

“No, you--”

By the gods, the man would swallow me down were I composed of less resolve.  I flattened a palm upon his chest and gave a single, short push.

He reared back half a step.

Fuck.  This man.

My fingers clenched in the hair at the back of his skull.  “Agron, allow me to apologize for careless words!”

“Only if you accept apologies for mine.”

I shook my head.  “No.  You spoke needful reminder.  These men met enemies and withstood combat absent armor and shield.  A courageous effort that should be commended.  It is Glaber who delivers insult by sending ignorant boys to face them.”

“Us,” Agron amended.  When I blinked, he inquired, “Or do you count yourself apart?”

“No, I stand with you.”  Of course.  Always.

He leaned his brow against mine.  “That Roman fuck has committed his last offense.  He shames himself in commanding those--those-- _ ** **Kin’der!****_ \--those _****children****_  to fight.”

In truth, the praetor may have intended for militia to perform a mere show of force rather than actual battle.  Glaber had clearly not anticipated an ambush.  He had underestimated our numbers despite the fact that we had obviously taken three ships’ worth of slaves from Neapolis harbor.  He had underestimated our cunning and resolve and ferocity.  He had surely believed that we--

No.  I would think no more on the man’s motives.  Rather, I would relegate today’s burdens to the past and cast gaze toward the future.

I studied Agron’s lips as my hand glided over his chest.  Fingers tangled in necklace’s leather cords.  Tugged.

The corners of his mouth kicked up in a knowing, lopsided smile.  “Am I forgiven?” he murmured.

“Am I?”

“Yes,” he breathed before my own rebuttal had finished passing lips.  And then his mouth engaged mine in a messy, sloppy dance.  His hands framed my face and knee nudged between my thighs.  I bit his lower lip and he mewled, pulling free to nibble along my neck, his aim given voice with whisper in ear: “Come to our room?”

I gulped air into my lungs.  “And what would you have us do there?”

He exhaled shakily, lips trembling open against sensitive skin.  “Choose one another.”

Ah, gods.  This fucking man.

Again, I pushed at his chest.

Again, he retreated, watching me, bracing himself for refusal.

Ridiculous German oaf.

By the time I had shoved him around and nudged him toward cellar steps, I was certain he was grinning at me: I who had once stood a body slave of enviable proficiency now floundered, lust-choked and words hastily abandoned.  The measure of Agron’s smug amusement was in the slope of his shoulders and cocky thrust of jaw.  He slowed his steps and fell back alongside me in stone corridor and, yes, the girth of his fucking grin was unmatched by any I had laid eyes upon before.

I pressed an authoritative hand to the small curve of his spine above belt’s edge and his gaze met mine in heated glance.  I had long given up discerning the precise color of his eyes from moment to moment, but I found myself chasing that look into our room -- _****our room!****_  -- and pursuing him down upon pallet in the dreary shadows.  Faint light of afternoon sun seeped in from under curtain.  Distant sounds of singing and laughter.

Weapons clattered to floor.  Clothing shifted and sifted away.  His long legs wound around my hips and our oiled hands rushed greedily over skin and I would have been content to lose myself in the rhythm absent both purpose or thought of consequence, but Agron urged me closer, closer, closer until he sheathed my cock and panted against my neck and my hands reached over his back to grasp his shoulders from behind as our chests rubbed in heated glide, the gift of woven necklace trapped between us.

Catching his gaze, I rolled my hips slow-and-deep, slow-and-deep, and his pelvis canted to receive my touch within him as my cock tugged, slick and sure, against his flesh.

Gritted teeth.  Soft groans.  Bitten-off gasps and swollen lips.  The blush of skin made rosy from the constant rub of stubble.  Warm palms upon hips and ass.  My forehead pressed to ridge of collarbone.

Quick, approaching footsteps.  Curious whispers.

I ignored them, licked and kissed the flesh beneath my mouth as Agron’s long arm stretched out and snagged his cloak, threw it over our hips, fabric rippling with telltale motions.

“Let them see us,” he mouthed against my brow.  His fingertips brushed over my cheeks before splaying wide and guiding the loosened tendrils of my hair away from my eyes.

Looking up, I agreed, “We choose each other.”  Yes, let anyone who would look _****see****_  this.  Let them see how people _****loved.****_

Perhaps the curtain shifted under wayward hands or passing breeze.  Agron’s gaze remained upon me as I nuzzled and nipped his knuckles, as he slid one palm down my spine to clutch cloak’s fabric and press fisted hand to my waist.  This was ours.  The sensation of skin-on-skin.  The scent of his musk and my sweat.  Our smiles of helpless pleasure and pure joy.

A gasp.  Giggles.  Small feet running back the way they’d come.

Agron chuckled… and then moaned as I caressed chest and grasped cock.

A German curse snapped in half between his strong teeth.

“Would you--wait for release?” I wheezed.

He shook his head and surrendered to my touch.  Within a half dozen slippery tugs, he was spilling, tightening, yanking me into the rush of euphoria.

This.

This man.

“Mine,” I murmured, ears still buzzing and skull ringing.  “Hmm… _**mine.”**_

He giggled, his long fingers petting my frazzled hair and flushed, sweaty neck.  I messily licked a long line upon the flesh below my lips, tracking over a tight nipple and startling a laugh out of him, his arms flexing our bodies into tighter press.

Agron should not glory in my claim.  Any man possessed of sense would balk at such a declaration, such blatant liberties.

Ah, well.  I had long since abandoned endeavor of imparting good sense to this free-born man from east of the Rhine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand if you’re disappointed by Glaber and Ashur dying “off-screen,” but Nasir honestly had better things to do with his time than sit back and watch a couple of bad guys die. And circumstances didn’t allow Duro and Agron to leave the German warriors unsupervised for battle, so... yeah. This was just how it worked out.
> 
> According to some sources, Glaber probably didn’t attack Spartacus’ followers with a professionally trained army. Instead, he might have led a militia (whose members I assume would have been gathered from nearby communities).
> 
> Also, it’s commonly accepted that Glaber attacked Spartacus at Vesuvius (where Spartacus held the advantage of high ground--also, this is where the ropes/ladders made from vines happened), but I’m clearly offering an alternate history here where Glaber dies in Atella (and Ashur is taken out of the picture before he can pull together that band of mercenaries).
> 
> I’ve read that, following Glaber’s defeat at Vesuvius, Praetor Varinius was sent to deal with what many Romans still viewed as a rabble of recently escaped slaves. Given that there were two Serville Wars before this, I can only imagine that slaves escaping and causing havoc in the countryside was not an uncommon occurrence… which might help explain why there were so many guards at the villa (in Spartacus: Vengeance, Episode 2) -- the guards weren’t only there to keep the slaves in line, but to protect against outside attack. Of course, everyone in Rome seriously underestimated the destruction that a group of unleashed gladiators could cause.
> 
> But, yes, THE POINT BEING there are several loose ends yet to be tied up in “Vesuvius” and one more praetor on the way.
> 
> EDIT: I promised I wouldn’t use much German in this story, but there’s one word here. Agron says “Kinder” to mean “children” (and OK, I kinda like how he expresses his anger by dropping his guard around Nasir and letting a bit of his mother tongue come through... I dunno... I just have lots of feels). But since "Kinder" looks a lot like the English word “kinder,” I added an apostrophe to break it up and hopefully show that it’s not the same language as the rest of Agron’s comment. *shrugs*


	12. Little Monsters

Life.

Days passed.  Routines settled.  One by one, the Syrian children began to smile.  Little by little, they grew bold.  Bold enough to test the authority of the freed men and women who oversaw their daily chores.

The first time I witnessed a child struck for impertinence -- or perhaps it was an honest mistake -- I sought private conference with the former house slaves who directed their efforts and bid any trespass requiring more than a loud scolding be brought to my attention for punishment.  The children were under my protection; therefore, they would also be subject to my discipline.

Memory provided little guidance in appropriate penalties; I had no experience managing children.  I myself had always been treated as if fully grown -- wholly subject to the consequences of mistakes and misbehavior.  Given that everyone in Spartacus’ camp depended on one another for the sake of survival, I reluctantly concluded that regardless of miscommunication or laziness, each child would be held accountable for his or her failures.

The very day after I had voiced my resolve, two boys and a girl were brought to me for shirking duties.

I gazed upon them with heavy heart, set them to making arrows under watchful eye, and then collected them prior to evening meal.  When they moved to collect their portions, I put out a hand to halt their steps, lowered chin, and slowly shook my head.  We watched as everyone else received meal, sat, laughed, reclined with bellies full.

Agron hesitated to join the line, nodding for Duro to go ahead.  “For what offense do these little monsters pay with their evening portions?” my lover asked conversationally despite the muscle that clenched at corner of jaw.

Sighing, I answered, “I would instill discipline.  A life may rely upon attention to command.”

Agron visibly desired to argue, but we both knew he held no grounds for objection.  I too wished things could be different for the people under our care.  He glanced from the gradually emptying pot to the defeated postures of my charges.  “Would you have me collect their meals?  For later?”

I shook my head.  “We will eat _****after****_  all who have dutifully followed instruction to benefit of themselves and others have received food.”

My lover blinked, chin jerking to the side with blatant surprise.

I arched a brow in request for explanation.

His head bowed in something akin to shame.  “Apologies.  For over-harsh assumption.”

“I do not seek to be cruel,” I replied absent offense.  “But in the absence of understanding my words, they will heed prolonged hunger pains.”

At that precise moment, my own belly complained.  Loudly.

Agron offered a look of pity.  “Allow me to claim your bowl along with mine then.”

I declined, but permitted him to explain to Euclid that the four of us waited to be served last.  It was very late by the time Euclid spooned a bowlful for himself -- he preferred the final allotment, claiming to favor the taste of ingredients given longer duration to mingle.

When he retired, I assumed his post and gestured the miscreants forward.  The utter relief on their faces shook my resolve to repeat this particular punishment in the future -- shook, but did not topple it.

I served them with a stern look and sent them to pallet with a nod of dismissal.  Glumly, they shuffled obediently to their posts.  I watched them eat and supervised the washing of their dishes.  Only then did I permit myself to smile at them: their punishments served and forgiveness bestowed.

Duro noted: “No lack of food could hold against that fearsome scowl of yours.”

I huffed in blatant doubt.

“He speaks truth,” Agron insisted as I finally lifted my own spoon to partake of supper.  “Why do you think I commit so much effort to pleasing you?”

Nearly choking on a bite, I struggled to glare the grin from his face but he merely resumed his own meal long grown cold and unappetizingly congealed.  He’d left a full half remaining.

Gesturing to the stew in his bowl, I threatened: “Shut fucking mouth or I shall report to Euclid that you stand ungrateful of his efforts.”

Duro’s head snapped back on a bark of laughter.

Agron scowled at him before explaining apparent lack of appetite: “Should pot be emptied too swiftly, I would offer you something to fill belly.”

I gaped at him as he conducted thorough study of his meal before daring a glance up at my silence.  Fuck.  He was utterly sincere.  He would have contented himself with a half ration in order to offer me sustenance.

Clearing my throat, I rallied in a teasing tone, “There is nothing else you would offer to fill my belly?”

I could recall at least one alternative he and I had indulged in some weeks ago… upon a villa rooftop in dead of night.

Agron met my salacious grin with flushed cheeks.  Duro loudly proclaimed intent to seek conversation elsewhere.

Leaning in close, Agron murmured against my lips, “Make request for another serving and see it provided.”

I laughed.  Kissed him.  My belly rumbled impatiently.

The nearest children giggled.  As did Agron.

I finished fucking meal.  Upon retiring to pallet, Agron murmured lowly into my ear, “Duro stands correct -- the little monsters would sooner be roasted over campfire than earn a measure of disappointment from their Nasir.”

_****Their Nasir.** ** _

I shrugged aside the uncomfortable simmer blossoming within chest.

“Do the rest of us not so stand with respect to Spartacus?” I dared, casting gaze over my charges.  They would be a tangle of limbs by morning, but for now they curled up in small, self-contained islands among the bedding.

“We do,” Agron agreed.

However, I could not rely on that fear for maintaining order with regards to the older Syrian boys and girls.  Their disobedience was far more calculating and subtle.  The discomfort of their punishment was, therefore, proportionally increased.  To those unwilling to comply with instruction, I assigned the least desired chore: the thorough cleaning of overused temple bath.

The charge was normally shared between many hands and rotated to save aching backs, but a young man or woman under my care who failed his or her duties spent the following morning and afternoon scouring stone walls, corners, floor, and bath.  Minimal assistance was offered.  A short rest was permitted for midday meal.  It was wholly unpleasant, but regardless of offense, no one suffered mistreatment from blows or hunger.

Still, I could not oversee thirty-seven children and twenty-four youths in addition to my own daily tasks, which included sparring with the eleven Syrian men.  I was forced to rely heavily upon the freed men and women who supervised their work.

The potential for abuse was clear to me long before I stumbled upon a laughing congress of former house slaves as one man proclaimed intent to bring his charge to me for discipline the day before he was slated to assist with cleaning temple bath.

Clearing my throat, I allowed their horrified silence to draw me closer.  “A bold move,” I told all, my expression schooled with a placid smile, “aggravating someone skilled in wielding knife upon opponent regardless of day or night.”

“Knife?” one woman squawked.

“Their lessons begin on the morrow,” I declared.  Clearly, instruction was long overdue.  “Enjoy your evening.”

I excused myself from their wide-eyed stares and sought out the eight Syrians who held adequate understanding of common tongue, beseeching them to act as translator in the event that they were made aware of unfair treatment.

Adal lingered as the group dispersed, their shoulders weighted with additional responsibility.

I invited him to speak his thoughts with an expectant look.

He smirked.  “Given the rumor that you command a German warrior such as Agron to sheathe your cock, we stand fortunate you favor your own countrymen.”

“My cock’s business is none of yours,” I scolded him and then gave correction: “As to the matter of favoring my own countrymen, it has not always been so.  My regard is earned with hard work and honesty.”

Adal nodded, humor wiped from his features.  “A noteworthy distinction.”

“However,” I added spontaneously, “should spying eyes once more breach my privacy, they may be subjected to a sight… contrary to expectation.”

My fellow Syrian snickered.  “Heh.  Breach.  You have an apt way with words.”

“And you bleat of jealousy to my ears,” I jested.  “Do I meet you upon the sands in answer to implied challenge or do we summon Agron?”

Adal’s hands flashed into the air, palms exposed in mute surrender.

Surrender was far from thoughts later that evening when two young women requested a secluded meeting to voice grievance toward a liberated warrior: a German I had never broken words with but who could be found at Sedullus’ side more often than not.  He had a penchant for harassing these girls when errands took them beyond the sight of others.  Witnessing their resentment, terse whispers, and halting gestures which mimicked unwanted touch -- no translation was necessary.

“I will see to it,” I vowed and, during the next day’s training, I did.

I offered myself as sparring partner to the cretin, besting him thoroughly.  Although blood soaked my thoughts, I restrained myself to voicing the ultimatum that I had sought Agron’s instruction in translating to German tongue.

As I clasped the man’s arm at conclusion of our match, I very quietly told: “Your hands have wandered.  Next time, I will remove your cock in payment.”

He reared back, but I would not release him from grasp.  Reluctantly, he nodded his understanding.  “Ja,” he grated out in agreement, glowering.  “No Syrians.”

I gave no shit for causing him offense.  He had certainly given none with regards to the girls.

Still, we stood as comrades in Spartacus’ army.  I would endeavor to treat him as a brother.  “Your attack is good.  Strong,” I complimented, and then warned: “See to protection of knees.”  His slowness of guarding below waist was what had seen him fall to my sword and shield.

His shoulders relaxed.  With a nod, he sought another match.

I conferred with my Syrians and their supervisors: if possible, chores would be undertaken in view of others -- a mix of former house slaves and former gladiators -- to prevent future altercations.

At least until all stood ready to meet them.

“What will you have the little monsters learn today?” Duro asked during morning meal some days later.  He’d quickly taken to using Agron’s preferred term of address to speak of the Syrian children and I gave no protest.  Why would I when it was precisely that end which I encouraged?

Each day after morning chores, midday meal, and brief nap, I would dutifully gather the thirty-seven of them beneath Oenomaus’ intimidating stare for drills in ducking, dodging, and rolling.  Gaining feet.  Sprinting.  Most were exhausted by evening meal, but there were inevitably some who chased each other around the yard in a convoluted game of tag to which I did not know the rules.  Either it was a pastime of their own invention or a child’s game of Syria.

Eventually, all would settle down to pallet and, should Duro offer and I approve, he would sing for them in German.  Or entertain with a tale.  Translation in common tongue accompanying, of course.  Agron and I were unrelentingly recruited to enact lyrics or story.  Excepting the time Duro had desired to tell of a princess who had succumbed to enchanted sleep and awaited rescue from her brave prince.  Both Agron and I had adamantly refused to humor him.

“Very well.  I shall act as princess!” he had crowed.  Then, waggling his brows at me, he’d mused, “All I require is a handsome prince--”

Agron had over-sweetly volunteered: “Then I shall be honored as handsome prince who awakens his love with passionate--”

“Ugh!  Close fucking mouth and see yourself to fair distance!” Duro had bleated, shoving at Agron’s encroaching bulk.

I had never laughed so hard in my memory.  Nor had I realized it was possible to grow lightheaded from giddiness.

It was.

And with every following performance, the event’s popularity increased.  Our audience had grown to include a good number of liberated warriors as well as freed men and women.  I wondered what Duro’s selection would be tonight.

I considered the day’s itinerary carefully.  “You may wish to select a spirited song,” I advised our bard, “for today the little monsters rehearse elbow jabs and knee thrusts.”

Agron winced emphatically, reaching up to give my shoulder a commiserating squeeze.  “A miserable task to undertake alone.”

Duro sent Agron a worried look, no doubt concerned that I would attempt to recruit them to assist.

“I make no request for volunteers.”  My grin was wide and very sharp.  “Crixus, by way of Naevia’s urging, sends me Mannus and Liscus.”

Duro nearly tumbled down the steps with mirth.

Agron chuckled.  “Lucky Syrian.”

I was.

I was additionally thrilled by the Veteran’s offer to volunteer for the ignominy of having sand tossed in his face as he pursued his charges, one after another, to test their agility.  By the end of the training session, even Oenomaus appeared exhausted.  I fared no better than Liscus and Mannus, coin-shaped bruises already blossoming on our thighs from sharp blows.  We removed our pelvis and shin padding with expressive exhalations of relief much to the Veteran’s amusement.  The fucking prune of a Greek had endured better than all of us.

“Nasir!”

Tossing the protective wrappings into our weapon’s cache, I met Naevia’s call with a smile.  It had been too long since she and I had broken any words beyond passing greeting.  “Naevia!  Gratitude for today’s volunteers.”

She smirked.  “I would ask a favor in exchange.”

“Oh?  And a large one given the enormity of pleasure gained from watching the little monsters make a mess of Crixus’ men.”

Her laugh was beautiful and bold, bouncing along the stone and painting the entire temple.  The woman who stood before me now held no resemblance to the quaking slave girl Zaria had coaxed from cart.

“Indeed,” she agreed and then sobered.  “It concerns Simon.”

I froze, breath caught in lungs.  I had avoided infirmary since the day of Glaber’s defeat.  Medicus had been forced to seek me out to assess the wound upon my arm, grumbling at my lack of courage to face a bed-bound boy.  I had cheerfully reminded him that he would never see daylight were it not for me.  When I had assured him that I required no gratitude for the service, he’d smacked me upon back of head and stomped back into temple, used wrapping clutched in hand.  Apparently, I was sufficiently healed.

Would Simon soon be deemed hale?

“What of him?”  I did not bother to inquire if he asked for me.  I knew he would not even if he desired to break words.

Naevia frowned.  “He no longer responds to either Medicus or myself.  His ears are closed to even his friends from Neapolis.”

I said nothing.  If he chose to allow himself to fade into uselessness, so be it.

“Please.  Go to him.  You may be the only one among us capable of stirring him to purpose.”

“And what purpose have I to offer?” I challenged, fury building under my skin.  “Does he walk again?  Use his hands to grasp sword or cup or cock?  What future does he face where he is not merely a pair of holes for fucking?”

Naevia had gotten much better at punching.  I rotated my jaw carefully as I turned my face back to her wrathful expression.  “If the option so offends, then permit him to find another purpose!” she hissed.

When she spun on her heel, I quickly caught her elbow.  “Take pause and accept apologies.  I loosen my frustrations upon you.”

She huffed.  “We fling them upon each other.”  With a glance to my cheek and a grimace, she observed: “That will bruise.”

“Perhaps it will coax a smile from our patient.”

Her lips twitched.  “Or stir his envy.”

I shrugged.  “Either way…”

“...aim is met, yes,” she agreed.

Tonguing inside of cheek to massage battered flesh, I murmured, “Formidable attack.”

“The fruit of Crixus’ labors.”  Despite the deflection, she beamed.

“I hope the poor shit never gives cause to receive the like from his best student.”  Accepting my playful wink, she headed off to see to her next charge and I, with a heavy sigh, turned toward mine.

Steeling myself, I entered Medicus’ domain.  With a glance, I discerned that the man was absent and Simon yet upon fur-piled platform, his face turned away from threshold.

I did not ask to enter this time.  Instead, I boldly cleared a space upon nearby counter -- shoving jars aside -- and sat.

I sat and waited until I could hear teeth grinding in the silence.

“It is mid afternoon,” I informed, “and a pleasant day.”

He snarled: “A pleasant day would require your blood.”

My shoulders shook with a mocking chortle.  “And how would you spill it?”

He shot a glare toward me.

I smirked, brow lifting in invitation.  When he kept his silence, I jeered, “More effort than what you now expend will be required for successful venture.”

“Bend over and get fucked!”

“See it done!” I challenged.

He lunged upright, pausing to sway and blink against a wave of dizziness.  How many days had he spent lying flat?  Too many.

He groaned, pressing wrists to face.

I permitted him to draw me in.  Shifting closer, I leaned into his space.

His arms shot out, but I stood ready for attack and grasped his limbs.  His knees jerked, though he possessed neither strength nor space to land blows.  Simon stared at me, eyes burning and teeth bared and--fuck--I gazed upon mirror image.  My life had ended the moment I had leaped to Varro’s aid; as I had raged for the loss of all that was familiar, so too must this young man.  It stood the only way to embrace life anew.

“Intent was obvious,” I scolded, ignoring his still-splinted right hand and twitching left.  “Next time, perhaps lure quarry close with indiscernible whisper, wrap him up in limbs, and set teeth to throat.”

The advice reached through the flames of his fury and he calmed.  Considered.  Calculated.  “You will not fall to that trap.”

“Then concoct another.”

He sneered.  “I’ve no other charge to attend.”

“Should you seek to polish temple steps upon elbow and knee, I shall assign it.”

“You are fucking Syrian shit.”

A puff of laughter escaped me before I could stop it.  “I can honestly not lay claim to that boast.”

Simon chewed the inside of his cheek.

I released his arms and resumed seat.

We stared at each other until Medicus trudged over threshold.  “Fucking Syrian!” he bellowed.  “Fuck off and away from my medicines!”

“I organized them for you,” I blithely returned just to watch the man’s face purple.

“Out!  Out you fucking pest!  Go fuck your moronic German.  Surely he’ll thank you for moving _****his****_  shit about.”

A helpless sputter and wheeze -- Simon’s inelegant mirth -- reached my ears, but I did not look away from the medicus.  I bragged: “He offers much gratitude for that very service.  Why, just last night, he licked--”

“I will fucking shove this pestle down your throat, you pompous little cunt!  Out!”

I appeased him, Simon’s giggles trailing me toward threshold where I paused long enough to cheerfully bait the man: “When desire to hear detailed account overwhelms, you need only speak the word!”

He grabbed aforementioned pestle and brandished it threateningly.

I took my leave.

Despite the evening’s spritely selection courtesy of Duro and the waves of roaring laughter Agron and I invoked with our overly dramatic enactment -- which included a mock sword-fight wherein my character belched fish and Agron’s pulled turnips from ears -- I found no respite at bedtime.  I tucked my head down against Agron’s chest and breathed, feigning slumber.

“Sleep eludes?” he murmured into my hair.

I pressed a palm over his heart.  “Nearly two weeks,” I observed, counting back to day of battle.

His arms flexed.  His chin brushed my crown.  “Rome will send us another praetor soon.  Worry not, Syrian warrior.”

Fucking German.  Of course he would assume I ached from boredom.

Curling closer, Agron pressed his lips to my forehead.  “Speak, Nasir.”

“My new charge,” I reluctantly -- but inevitably -- admitted: “Simon.”

“What of him?”

I sighed.  “My thoughts precisely.”  Pulling anger and laughter from the boy was all well and good -- not a bad start, all in all -- but what lay beyond that?  Should Simon’s heart release rage and touch upon the frightening realm of misty future, to what could I direct his attention and efforts?

Agron hummed, mulling the issue over in his mind.  “Permit him to surprise you,” my lover recommended, arching himself back to receive my upturned gaze, “as you surprised Duro and me.”

“That I survived?”

“No!” he breathed, shocked.  “That you fight with neither pause nor end.”

I did not understand.

“Gordianus,” Agron spoke.  “Duro and I witnessed--heart at risk of bursting between gritted teeth--”  His throat locked tight, clicking audibly at vivid memory.

I grumbled indignantly: “I stood more than capable of meeting his challenge.”

“We never held doubt of that.”

“Then what?”

Agron shook his head, brow beetled.  “You did not end match at earliest opportunity and return to loving arms.  So stands a brother’s duty.”

Which I was apparently yet learning.  “Apolog--”

“Hush.”

“Fucking hush yourself.”

He chuckled and issued challenge: “See to your charge, then!”

I answered his teasing jest not with smugly-anticipated kisses but by clamping a hand over his smirking grin.  He snorted, breath puffing against callused fingers.  When his voice rumbled incomprehensibly, I obligingly lifted palm.

“You mistake my meaning,” he drawled.  “In the ludus, you provided Duro and myself unending awe and amazement.”

I drolly remarked, “I no longer tumble either of you ass over ears?”

“What fucking nonsense,” he growled through a grin.  “We are forever bruised by you.  Day by fucking day.”  His fingertips trailed over the edge of discoloration upon my cheek.  He hadn’t asked and I hadn’t volunteered.  Such injuries were common enough souvenirs from sparring matches, though the men bearing the mark of the Brotherhood rarely displayed them.  Agron continued, “Simon will likewise tumble you, little man.”

I kneed him in the thigh.

He grunted.  Laughed.  Kissed the tip of my nose.

My irritation eased.  Slumber descended.

The following day, I crossed into Medicus’ terrain once more.  Simon had apparently been reminded of the animosity he bore me.  We spent a very uncomfortable evening in silence.  He glared.  I drummed my fingers upon thigh.  Medicus sent me vengeful looks from where he worked at counter top.

And then Duro stuck his head in.  “Ah!  Nasir.  I heard tell I would find you here.”

I ached a brow at him as he smilingly delivered evening meal to both healer and patient.

“Gratitude, German,” Medicus grumped.

“German?  The one Nasir fucks?” Simon inquired far too innocently.

Well, if he sought a game, I would permit it.  “Duro?” I prompted.

He beamed.  “Alas, no.  It is my brother Agron who Nasir renders senseless with pleasure.”

Simon smirked.  “And stands Agron aware that his lover spends this evening with a whore?”

“Who do you think offered me direction here?”

“He does not seek Nasir himself?”

Duro’s grin was fully as mischievous as Simon’s.   _ ** **“**** ** **Knowing****_  is one thing.   _ ** **Seeing,****_  on the other hand…” Duro trailed off on an uncertain warble.  He shrugged, cleared his throat, and brightly explained: “Well, you’ve cast gaze upon him.  Who in their right mind would provoke my older brother?”

“You,” I interjected and then mused, “though I doubt you have ever been in your right mind.”

“Eh.  True.”

“Hold a moment!” Simon coughed, looking from Duro to me and back again.  “Agron did not stand as guard?  When you approached me in Neapolis?”

Duro cheekily confirmed: “Stationed beside your, erm, alcove?  Yes.  Yes, he was.”

Simon’s jaw unhinged.

I was forced to lower brow to palm to conceal my expression.  I had no notion if it revealed humor or exasperation.  Likely both.

“I can conjure no image of Nasir fucking that man in ass.”

I snorted.

Medicus giggled.

Duro sounded far too fucking pleased with himself as he hastened to assure his audience: “I heard and saw far too much of the like while we were yet in ludus--”

“That was one fucking time!” I blurted, dropping hand and pointing a finger at Duro’s daring grin.

Medicus giggled _****again.****_

Duro waggled his brows, victorious.

I sighed, arms flopping uselessly at my sides.  “Yes, yes.  My wit fucking amuses.”

“Come, little brother!  Food awaits.”

“You are the fuckless little brother,” I snarled.

“How is it my fault Agron exhausts you before it is my turn?”

“Sit ass on fucking pike!”

Medicus wheezed.  “Day by day, I am less inclined to believe our Syrian once stood a body slave to any Roman of note.”

I scoffed.  “The only Romans of note are the ones put to grass.”

“Now that is fucking poetry, brother!”

“Duro?  Go piss on a Gaul.”

The following evening, Simon greeted me with a snide dig: “Have you Agron’s permission to be here?”

“As surely as you have Medicus’ to be an obnoxious shit.”

“Only in regards to you.”

I conceded the point with a tilt of the head.  I expected no less.

A long moment passed before Simon posed yet another query, this time with visibly false bravado: “I heard tell of the battle against Glaber.”

“Eighteen days past,” I confirmed.  “His tribune Marcus and a Syrian called Ashur--”  Here I paused, gauging Simon’s sudden pallor.  Ah, so he did know the name of executioner and false accuser.  “--are both rotting in shallow graves as well.”

Simon nodded.  “Ashur--he asked after you.”  The young man sighed gustily.  “I regret--”  He stopped.  Shook his head.

“Ashur,” I began, “deserves no place in memory.  I also chose not to attend his death.”

Simon’s expression twisted.  “You mistake meaning.  I regret breaking words on our first meeting.”

By his glare, he did not mean his conversation with Ashur.

I left the room absent explanation or farewell.  Gaining the temple steps, Agron’s glance found me twice in quick succession.  He grinned at my unexpected appearance before realizing what such a thing must indicate.

“I would have words with the fuck,” he growled, shifting to approach infirmary.

At barest touch upon arm, he halted.  “No.  Intervention is not necessary -- yet.  I hold intent to return to charge.”

Agron smiled proudly, retreated a step to bring our gazes level, and tilted in for a kiss.  My fingers combed slowly through his hair as I obliged with leisurely caress of tongue and lips, discovering goose flesh upon the nape of his neck.

“Hmm,” he complimented, ignoring the chorus of shrill and approving whistles coming from the yard.  “In exchange for promise of repetition, I could perhaps allow you from sight a little longer.”

“So be it,” I sighed with mock resignation.  A final caress of his scruffy cheek and then I was gesturing two of my little monsters up the temple steps.

“Theleda and Thelmenis,” I beckoned.  They were a sister and brother that I had learned were twins and tended to hold themselves apart from the other children in the same way Agron and Duro often stood together.  Though I doubted they understood my words, I explained, “Come and meet a friend of mine.  He is injured and requires cheering.  He is called Simon.”

I ushered them down the corridor toward infirmary.  They looked to me in silent question -- none of the children, despite the occasional scrape, had spent time in the room Medicus claimed, but they surely all knew the activity that took place there.  I reassured them with a pat upon their narrow shoulders and then we were crossing threshold.

Simon glowered at his bandaged hands, startling when he noticed our approach.  His brows twitched, scrunching together in question.

I obliged with the introductions: “Simon, this is Theleda and her brother Thelmenis.”

He nodded guardedly, lips quivering in a hesitant smile.  “Theleda.  Thelmenis.”

Theleda reached for her brother’s hand.  “Simon,” she said and Thelmenis echoed, then both looked up at me for approval.  I gave them a warm smile, mindful of the way Medicus watched our byplay from corner of eye.

“Simon,” I spoke, “do you guess what purpose prompts this meeting?”

He shook his head, bafflement giving way to a flicker of fearful suspicion.

“Theleda and Thelmenis are two of thirty-seven children who will never receive Roman punishment.  Not so long as I draw breath.”  Simon’s jaw clenched and I continued with my account before he caused interruption.  “Thirty seven children.  Twenty-four adolescent boys and girls.  Eleven Syrian men.  Eighty-two German and one hundred eight Gallic warriors.  All absent slave collar because of the words you broke with me.”

Simon opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Swallowed.  Glanced away.  “You paid well for information.”

And yet Simon had paid for my carelessness.

But this was not the time to address my own guilt.  I said, “I paid in coin, yes, but you paid in pain as per Roman law for a crime you were ignorant of committing and whose magnitude you could not see until this moment.”  I rubbed the shoulders of my charges.  “I do not attempt to silence your laments, for it stands your right to voice regret, but I would have you hold in mind knowledge of all the good made possible by your actions.  Simon, your suffering is not absent meaning.”

Tears spilled over the edge of his pale lashes.

Beneath my left palm, Thelmenis shifted forward and placed his small hand upon Simon’s bare knee.  “All well,” the boy soothed, “little monster.”

I choked.

Medicus gave up all pretense of distraction and _****gawped.****_

Simon guffawed wetly, weeping openly even as he smiled for the boy.  “Gratitude, Thelmenis.”

“Indeed,” Medicus drawled.  “Gratitude, Thelmenis.”

I added my thanks to theirs and shooed the children back to the yard.

“Little monster?” Medicus repeated, brows arched.

Tilting chin back, I shook my head at the ceiling.  My fucking Germans.

A snort-huff-sniffle- _ ** **giggle****_  brought our attention back to Simon.  He doubled over with mirth.  Tears still streamed down his flushed cheeks, but his smile was real.

At long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken bones were often the harbinger of infection and death in the ancient and medieval world. I’m not entirely sure how Ashur survives a broken leg in the TV show, but I figured it had to be because Medicus has wicked awesome healing skills… which he totally applies to Simon’s hand. Thank goodness. I really didn’t want the kid to lose it.
> 
> Also, you gotta admire Nasir for not throwing Agron and Duro under the bus regarding that “little monster” bomb. Because, regardless of who Thelmenis heard it from, those silly German brothers were totally the ones to get that snowball rolling.


	13. Rally the Ranks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes

Cheers.

Scrapes.  Snarls.  Smacks.  Shouts.

A loud thud in the meadow.

An incomprehensible curse.

The Germans and Gauls were brawling.  Again.

Oenomaus paused instruction.  I glanced up from the children who had assembled in the yard for sparring practice.  The Numidian and I exchanged a look and then I was waving everyone out of the yard and up onto the relative safety of temple portico where freed men and women made use of remaining daylight.

Less so now as the commotion gained in volume and drew gazes.

I loped over to the wall, gaining top edge just as Oenomaus took up post beside the weapons cache.  Gannicus’ timely interruption of seven enraged, steel-seeking Gauls stood as the only reason no lives had been lost last time.

My gaze skimmed over the jostling rabble beyond temple wall.  A shifting line of men with arms outstretched kept both sides from crashing against one another.  The force of tempers set both Germans and Gauls to surging back and forth akin to ocean waves smashing and drawing at stony cliffs.

I spotted Agron and Duro in the thick of it.  My lover barked and scowled thunderously.  My little German brother’s dark brows pulled tautly together in a frustrated frown as he shouted down a viciously smiling Lugo.

On the other side, Crixus roared commands and threw punches.  Liscus sneered and spat.  Rhaskos grinned and shoved.  Acer, Manus, Plenus, Fortis and many others bearing the brand formed a barrier as one hundred and seven Gauls called for German blood.

The one hundred and eighth slammed into temple wall below with enough force to rattle teeth.  Sedullus stood over thrown opponent, face twisted in a grimace as the Gaul kicked out at his massive feet.

Fuck.

The last time this had happened, Spartacus had intervened.  He’d ordered one Gaul paired with one German, bound together at two arms’ length with cloth upon ankle and then recruited men from among the Brotherhood to face them in hand-to-hand contest.

“You will fight as one,” Spartacus had decreed, “until you concede to stand as one!”

I’d glimpsed Oenomaus’ weary smirk and wondered at it.

“A temporary alliance at best,” my instructor had rumbled when I had found opportunity to inquire toward source of amusement.

Temporary.  A harsh criticism, I had thought at the time.  Wrestling matches had gone well into the night and successfully exhausted frustrations.  The sport had even seen smiles and friendly gestures shared between opposing sides.  Agron and Crixus had assigned a man from each of their groups to lend hands to cooperative efforts undertaken with former house slaves and former gladiators.  Mixed teams had been regularly sent to raid distant roads for supplies and set snares for game.  A myriad of necessary projects undertaken had begun to foster a sense of unity…

And now all those gains were lost in the wake singular offense that these two morons thrashed out with fists and feet.

The truce had endured four days.  “Four fucking days.”

The sound of familiar laughter gave me pause and I looked to find Gannicus at my side.  “Four days longer than expected!” he trilled.

I admitted to having been warned: “Oenomaus predicted it would not last.”

The Celt held out a spear to me and I duly noted his sheathed swords.  “Shall we sort these fucks out, brother?”

“Let’s,” I replied, crouching.  “I would attend to worthwhile tasks while it is yet daylight.”

With a chuckle, he leaped and I fell.  He took down the Gaul with solid kick to chest, blades hissing a flashing, lightning-quick threat.  I rolled in upon target to thread shaft of spear through Sedullus’ ankles and tumble him to the ground, locking him flat upon belly.

The sound of hoof beats was welcome: Spartacus arriving from training our cavalry.  His mount plowed through the roiling throng, coming to a stop opposite Gannicus and myself.  And the pinned miscreants, of course.

“Sedullus,” Spartacus summarized of the German before identifying the Gaul: “Rhesius.”

Sedullus rolled his shoulders, bracing both hands upon the ground.  I bared my teeth in anticipation of his move.  With his size and strength, yes, he might very well throw me off, but then I would simply enjoy toppling him a second time!

The man’s chest expanded with a readying breath--

And suddenly Agron roared German words with such skin-blistering vehemence that the big man froze.

 _ ** **Do not fucking interfere, Agron!****_   My throat burned with the words, but this was not the time or place to speak them.  Nor was this even my fight.

“Allow them to gain feet,” Spartacus requested and, by the time both men were standing upright, all had quieted.  The cavalry -- twenty men and women astride the most capable of our stolen horses -- ringed the tense gathering in a show of intimidating force that held hot tempers to grounded feet.

Spartacus addressed the combatants: “You would be better served to direct your frustrations toward the Romans.”

“No Romans here!” Sedullus obstinately pointed out.

“No,” Spartacus agreed calmly.  “Here you will find friends.  Brothers.  Sisters.”  His increasing temper was revealed in his horse’s dancing steps.  “You have stood alongside one another in battle!  You have bled together!  You all share in the same victory!”

Silence answered the Thracian’s frustrated bellow.

The Germans glared.

The Gauls glared.

Gannicus smacked the flat of one blade against his thigh in exasperation.  “Fucking bind them ankle-to-ankle and let them have at each other with sword and shield!” he proposed.  His mouth curved into a sharp grin.  “Our forces may be halved but at least the stronger will yet stand!”

“You and Oenomaus will be the first to demonstrate?” Spartacus bit out, clearly at wit’s end.

For the first time in memory, Gannicus appeared genuinely offended.  “Your following will grow sparse indeed if you pit brother against brother.”

“Precisely,” the Thracian agreed, but the Celt merely turned away with a shake of his head.

Spartacus dismounted and called both Duro and Crixus to approach for conference.  Pivoting in my direction with reins gathered in grasp, Spartacus implored, “I would ask a favor.”

“Keep horse close at hand,” I advised.  “Lest both sides are struck with purpose and seek to tear you apart.”

His mouth curved wryly.  “Your unending faith strengthens heart.”

When he nudged the reins in my direction, I harrumphed: “I leave you, then, to sing fucking siren’s song.”  For if he could not impart words to bring these ancestral enemies together, then they would happily rip each other to pieces.

I moodily grabbed for the reins and the horse shied back from the sudden transfer.  Knowing that my own irritation would only be amplified through my mount, I forced a calming breath before swinging myself up onto the animal’s back.  We had all received instruction for maintaining balance on horseback.  Well, all among us with exception for children who could not pull themselves astride absent assistance, as well as Medicus, Euclid, and Simon, of course.

I kneed the horse into a gallop, leaving Spartacus to his doomed fucking schemes -- or whatever insanity he could convince Duro and Crixus to endorse -- and headed for the makeshift stables.  Discerning our destination, the animal trotted enthusiastically right up to Libo.

“You deliver horse but no Spartacus,” the old man noted, reaching up to loosen bridle straps.

“He lashes himself to mast of sinking ship.”

The old man murmured soothingly, words meant for me and tone intended for riled creature: “Would that you had some Romans to slay.”

“Would that these simple shits would remember that there are Romans yet to be slain!”

“Hm,” the old man responded, lifting hand to soothe the upset my show of temper caused the animal beneath me.  “Would that Spartacus could offer sufficiently gruesome reminder of their temperament.”

A gruesome reminder.  I glanced down at my right forearm and the fabric which concealed lines of creased and puckered flesh where a brand had once been.  I recalled the agony suffered under Glaber’s direction and Ashur’s encouragement… and yet there was another whose pain eclipsed mine.

“Libo, pause.  Leave the tack.  I may yet have use for your friend here.”

“Very well,” the old Iberian agreed.  “But do not keep him out too late lest he grow cranky.”

The horse was very disappointed indeed to be given additional charge, but Libo delivered a sound smack to the animal’s hindquarters that propelled both of us through ludus gate.  Signaling the animal to halt beside temple steps, I called for Salaminias -- a boy who appeared to be nearly the same age as I had been when purchased by Marius -- to come forward and hold the reins.  Libo had remarked that the young man had a way with horses.  I would offer opportunity for him to develop useful talents.

I dismounted and gestured for him to grasp the reins.  “Wait here a moment,” I requested, pressing my palm to his shoulder.

“Wait,” he dutifully repeated.  “No go to Libo.”

“Yes.  That’s right, Salaminias.”  Slowly but surely, the Syrians’ use of common tongue was improving.

I jogged up the steps, pausing as Oenomaus shifted from his position at guard’s post.  “Does Spartacus stand possessed of better sense than previous occasion?”

“Should you wish to lend wisdom to endeavor, it would be well received.”

His gaze turned toward the wall and the muted disgruntlement beyond.  “Men of action swiftly tire of words.”

A habit I had noticed even in the ludus.  “In that case, may Fortuna bless my venture.”

Oenomaus’ contemplation of my meaning was a thing felt as I marched through portico’s middle and turned down corridor toward temple infirmary.  “Simon,” I greeted upon threshold. “Medicus.”

Simon jerked, fairly sweating with tension.  No doubt he’d heard the roars and ruckus.  “The Romans attack?”

“Were it so,” I sighed, and Medicus shook his head.

“Fucking idiots, the lot of them,” he muttered.

“Who?” Simon inquired before inspiration struck and left him gaping.  “That chaos could not have been caused by the Gauls and Germans again!”

I chuckled.  “Care to place a wager on it?”

“I would care to know what Spartacus is doing to keep them from turning feral!” Medicus snapped.

 _ ** **Were they not already feral?****  _ Somehow, I bit back the words.  “At the moment, he confers with Duro and Crixus.”

“On how best to send them racing up mountain trail and leap from cliff’s edge?”

A helpless puff of laughter squeezed past my lips.  “Do you volunteer to run ahead with wine held aloft?  I’m sure you’ll gain quite a following.”

“Smarmy Syrian.  State your business and fuck off.”

“As you command,” I mocked with a short bow that would have done Duro proud.  Turning attention to Simon, I found him staring hard at his bandaged hands.  I could only imagine his fury at not being able to clench fists.  But, perhaps, he might allow others to do so on his behalf.

“You recall four days ago?” I asked the young man.  “How Spartacus paired rivals together and set them to wrestle former gladiators?”

“To either gain victory as allies or suffer defeat as friends,” Simon quoted Spartacus’ rousing speech. “Yes.  For all the good it apparently did.”

Voices raised in argument echoed in an eerily timely manner along stone walkway.  How much longer would it be before riot erupted?

I licked my lips and guardedly suggested, “They may heed with eyes what crashes uselessly upon ears.”

The silence that pulsed in the wake of my words reminded me of the echoing _****clang!****  _of sword upon sword as I’d struck blade from Varro’s throat.

“You ask me to play the martyr’s part?” Simon sought to confirm with no small amount of indignation.  “Or perhaps provide theatrical amusement?”

“I ask of you what only you can do.”  Just I had done what only I -- an easily overlooked body slave among wealthy Romans -- could have done for Varro against Numerius’ sadistic decree.  I urged: “Show them your strength.  Challenge them to match it.”

His gaze lowered to his hands once more.  His shoulders slumped.  With a shake of his head, he relented, “And how would you present me?  Carried upon shoulders for all to see?”

“Apologies, but would you endure the indignity of horseback?”

He huffed at my playful smirk.  “I would not.  I have never ridden.”

“My arms will hold you fast.  I’ll not fail you again.”

Simon weighed my vow for a very long moment.  Accusing shouts and Agron’s bellow thundered over the wall and surged into temple.  One way or another, blood would be spilled should the altercation continue to fester.

Simon looked to Medicus for permission.

The man scowled furiously; I hoped he directed his ire toward those fucking nearsighted Germans and Gauls rather than me.  “Fuck.  Just fuck off the both of you.  You’ll do whatever you damn well please regardless of what counsel I would give.”

As that was as close to a blessing as the man ever managed, I beckoned Simon to slide toward the edge of the bed.  My gaze dropped briefly to his bandaged legs and ankles  “Do you walk?”

“A short distance.”

“To corridor’s end?”

“Yes.”

I nodded.  “Then I will see you the rest of the way.”

Simon bravely winced through each gingerly-weighted and stiff-footed step to portico where I hitched him up upon my back and carried him past curious stares toward the steps.  Oenomaus lent hands to venture and Simon was settled upon horseback with minimal fuss.  I mounted up behind him and told Salaminias to fetch Libo.  Given the jostling crowd and Simon’s still healing legs, we would need both old horseman and promising apprentice to guide us.

A dozen men of the Brotherhood watched from temple wall the debate taking place in the meadow, backs to temple yard as Germans and Gauls barked objections to being held apart from the conference and hurled insult across the dividing line of sensible men who yet pressed them apart.  The men braced upon wall’s edge spotted our approach first.  Those who crouched stood.  Those with crossed arms unfolded them.

Shift in attention rippled slowly through the men and women, sweeping faster along the line of brothers bearing the mark.  Sophus and Fortis stood nearest and they wordlessly shooed their charges back to make room.  Disgruntled mutters and exasperated complaints sputtered and fell to the ground absent response.

It was my hope that Spartacus would use offered opportunity to affect truce.  One that would endure longer than the previous:

Following Spartacus and Lydon’s match against the tethered might of Sedullus and his equally massive Gallic counterpart, Rhesius, the crowd had roared in unison at Spartacus and Lydon’s victory, Sedullus and Rhesius’ defeat.

“Brothers and sisters,” Spartacus had called, spreading his arms wide to pay homage to exhausted opponents.  “Our friends fight well, do they not?”

The men of the Brotherhood had applauded hard as every Gaul and German joined in with throat-shearing cheers.  Spartacus had waved his arms, encouraging yet more noise.  “Rhesius!  Sedullus!”  And then he’d repeated, for neither man would bear to stand in the wake of the other: “Sedullus!  Rhesius!  With you at our side we will see many Romans fall!”

As many Romans inevitably would, but these warriors had grown short-tempered during the wait for battle.  I supposed we could count it a blessing that they turned upon each other rather than abandoning us to throw themselves at Rome itself.  

They may yet make foolish attempt.

Fuck.

Something must be done, but I still did not know a warrior’s mind well enough to mold its intent -- nor would I ever wish to -- but Agron, Duro, Crixus, Spartacus… surely they could make something of presented opportunity.

Quiet curiosity rippled out as the horse dutifully nudged between bodies, Libo and Salaminias mutely alerting the unwary with outstretched hand and I kicked my feet out to protect Simon’s legs from risk of wayward blows.

The moment Agron saw us, I knew effort would not be wasted.  He elbowed through the crowd to bring us into the center of impromptu ring where Sedullus and Rhesius still grimaced hatefully at one another over the shoulders of the men charged with keeping peace.  All five men glanced up and gawped at our approach.

When I spoke, my voice was quiet, but it carried far in the bewildered silence: “Simon has offered to show them what they do not see.”

Spartacus nodded slowly.  “Gratitude, Simon.”  He stepped aside and gestured for Salaminias and Libo to turn the horse around to receive the full focus of the assembly.

The weight of so many stares pressed Simon back into my embrace, but I steadied him with a whisper: “I gave my vow.  I hold to it.  You are safe.”

“Must I speak?” he gasped, voice little more than a squeak.

“Not unless you hold desire to.”

“Not at present.”

I patted his shoulder, but kept the other arm wrapped snugly around his shivering waist.

“Brothers and sisters!” Spartacus called.  “Look to the neck of men and women beside you.”

He paused to allow Crixus and Duro to call out translation.

The Thracian bid all: “Cast gaze upon sweat and dust, but no collar.  No Roman collar chokes your neck.  No Roman whim bows head, weighs shoulders, or breaks back.  For that is what they do!  They capture the strongest of us and send us to the mines to dig for their treasures.”

The mines.  I shuddered along with Simon.

“They cast us into arenas to bleed for their amusement!”

Arenas at both city’s center and within villa atrium or domus’ dining room.  So many arenas.  Little else existed in this land for us.

“You and your brothers and your sisters bear no collar.  Today, you yet stand as free men and free women!  Capable and fierce.”

I glanced reflexively toward Agron.  Our gazes met.  Our smirking smiles matched: _****“Fucking fierce.”****_

“Look to your hands!” Spartacus urged.  “And cast gaze upon fingers that may grasp sword’s pommel or spear’s shaft.  And now look to those of my friend.”

With that, he paused and turned toward Simon.  Held out a hand in silent request.

Shoulders stiff, Simon allowed the Thracian to gently claim bandaged had.  Spartacus unwrapped the left while I very carefully unwound the wrappings upon the right.  Simon’s jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut at the unavoidable pain, but he made no sound despite labored breaths.

“This is Simon,” Spartacus continued.  “A young man of Neapolis -- the city where a number of slavers make port.  He served as a slave there and bravely broke words on the arrival of your ships!  For this, he was punished by Rome.

“How many of you have seen a man or woman nailed to cross?  How many of you have watched them hang in agony, awaiting death?”

Spartacus nodded for Simon to lift his bare, trembling hands high.

He did.

“Simon was nailed to cross for giving us the means to see you all free.  Simon will never grasp swords as you do or wield spears as you do.  He will never fight Rome as you do, but he fights in spirit.

“Nailed to cross and hung until dead.  This is the fate Rome would deliver all of us.  This is the fate Rome will deliver if we cannot stand as one!

“With words, Simon forestalled your suffering.  With your hands -- _****our hands****_  -- we will bring that suffering to bear upon the Romans!”

Even before Duro and Crixus had completed translations, roaring cheers were rising up from the men of the Brotherhood and from those who understood common tongue.  The horse’s ears twitched and swiveled.  Libo patted the animal’s neck.

“It is time,” Spartacus bellowed, “for the tide to turn as it must!  As it always shall!  And we will be the ones to bear Rome into the dust until not even the bards hold it in memory!”

Fists shot into the air.  Fire flashed in eyes.

We stood as one.  Again.

And if the gods yet cared, they would send us some fucking Romans to kill… soon.

Spartacus did not voice gratitude for my initiative.  In truth, I held no expectation of recognition.  I had fairly commanded the man to make the most of Simon’s sacrifice.  But as the horse moved forward on Libo’s direction and Simon wobbled, the Thracian caught my gaze.  Arms tight around my charge, I braced myself for a tired, disapproving frown.

Spartacus smiled.

I returned the gesture and later that night, felt it renew when Duro insisted on taking evening meal with Simon in infirmary.  Agron snugged himself up beside me upon temple wall and I permitted his arm across my back once he set emptied bowl aside.  In the meadow, Germans and Gauls tentatively mingled around the Syrian men who I had suggested might seek instruction in wrestling.  If lack of shared language stood as one barrier preventing these two groups from fully melding, perhaps fondness for sporting contest would repair splintered bridges.

Agron did not express concern for my able-bodied Syrian charges though we claimed vantage point to ensure fair treatment.  Instead, he pressed his lips to my temple and murmured, “You possess a god’s power to move men.”

“To worthwhile aim, I hope.”

He reared back, brows arched.  “You can conceive of one greater than improving a man?”

“For whose sake do I seek result?”

Agron snorted, as irreverent as ever in the face of formless concern.  “Absent Roman threat, you would let them tear one another to pieces?”

“Well.  I suppose not.”  Lips quirked, I explained: “For I would be among those charged with cleaning the mess.”

Agron laughed, tucking down to nuzzle ear.  He tongued an open-mouthed kiss against my hastily washed neck.  No, I did not fool him.

Still, he had no cause to appear so fucking impressed.  

Finding an unattended spot near nape, my lover lapped with brief, ticklish licks.  I hitched a shoulder up to block his efforts.  “Evening portion was lacking in quantity?”

“In flavor,” he mumbled, fingers now gliding up my back, over ribs, “and texture.”

“Should you devour me, there will be nothing remaining to terrify the Romans.”

He chuckled, low and dark.  “Should I devour you, the little monsters would skin me alive.”

I laughed, hesitating over the final bite of meal.  “You would deserve it.”

“Then perhaps it is you who ought to devour me.”  His chin dropped to chest and teeth flashed as he bit his lip.  “Before I commit unforgivable acts.”

“Ha!  You give no shit for forgiveness.”

His grin agreed with spoken truth.  No, my complaints did not fool Agron, but neither did his warnings of rash action fool me.

Still.  There was little point to be made in denying us both what we desired.  I gulped down the last spoonful and nodded for Agron to join me in washing our bowls and spoons, face and hands, hair and bodies.  Ah, gods.  The torture of holding still under the slow scrape of strigil.  I was not alone in burning in its wake.  Had I not pressed palm to Agron’s chest, he would have brought us together against bathroom wall.

“We possess a bed and four walls,” I informed, darting in to nip at his pouting lower lip at my refusal, “let us use them.”

Eyes bright and cheeks flushed, he followed in predatory silence to our room… where we did indeed make use of possessions, but we did not use each other.  Lying prone and held close in his arms, back pressed to his chest and chin angled over my shoulder to receive his kiss, hips rocking and cock caressing me deep within -- no, we did not use each other.

We breathed each other.

We held, merged, savored, celebrated, treasured.

We _****adored****_  each other, drawing out each moment of shared skin and pleasure, soft breath and hot tongue.

Agron pressed close and I grasped his hip to keep him near.  His brow against my neck in mindless surrender.  Regardless of alliances and oaths to others, here and now, this man was mine.  And I was his.

The warrior -- both his and mine -- ceded to dominion of lust and want and love.  Battle cries exchanged for sighs as two lovers moved together in wordless speech.

Night deepened until Agron’s soft, pleading whine was answered by my encouraging hum and he unleashed his passion, stealing the breath from lungs as his arms tightened, trapping mine against my chest and sought-sought-sought release until it caught him in its inescapable currents and pulled him under.

He pulsed, gasped, relaxed his arms.

I remained for a moment, simply feeling him, feeling us.  Marveling that Agron never attempted to push me onto belly or arrange me on hands and knees for his convenience.

There was nothing about us that existed for sake of convenience.

Agron’s scruff rubbed at raw skin as he mapped my well-suckled neck with butterfly kisses.  “How would you have me?” he rumbled, relaxed and willing.  Grinning in anticipation.

I tracked his hand as he dragged his fingers through our supply of oil and began slicking my cock.  I hissed at the contact.  Fuck was I done with waiting for my release.  Shifting away, I regretfully dislodged our connection, then turned and, pressing palm to his shoulder to urge him upon back, endeavored to renew it.  As expeditiously as possible.

“A ruckus of rowdy Gauls and Germans interrupted my training,” I teased as I carefully opened him to receive me.  “I would devote full effort before day is done.”

Drunk with pleasure, Agron smiled slowly.  “See to it,” he welcomed, lifting his hips, knees bent and thighs pressed to my shoulders.

I entered smoothly on his moan and my snarl, hooked his legs securely upon hands and shoulders, and began.  With every tug of flesh, my resolve to extend our pleasure crumbled bit by bit, but I endured.  I titled jaw against his knee and locked our gazes as his belly and chest flexed and followed with every slow thrust.

The burning returned, but I was well practiced in abstaining.

Agron was not.  “Nasir…” he encouraged and I knew what he desired.  He desired me wild.

Bequeathing him a look filled with promise saw his throat lock around a swallow in the lamp light.

“Fuck,” he grunted, hand twitching toward his swollen cock.

“Together?” I whispered.

His other hand cupped my cheek, fingertips tracing the curling tendrils of my hair over brow and ear.  “Yes,” he vowed.

A brief pause for additional oil, and then I gave him all.  The lover and the warrior both.  I gave him Nasir, and Agron’s jaw slackened and eyes widened in response to the speed and power that no one but my lover would receive.  My lover -- Agron -- the man I had chosen -- the man I yet chose -- the man I would fight and live and suffer and love beside.

Hand fisted around cock, but he was too overcome to do more than brush thumb over tip.  So little stimulation, yet he reached his peak and pulled me after him.

The night was deep now.  As deep as I was.  Both within my lover and myself.  I fell in both directions, in all directions, and found the pair of us entwined no matter where I reached out for grounding touch.

I did not recall tumbling into slumber.  My next moment of awareness came with the sound of running footsteps and Agron’s back flexing against my cheek and beneath hand.  I opened my eyes an instant before I heard the shout.

“Romans!”

_****Romans.** ** _

Agron startled.

I sat up.

We shared a look.

_****Romans.** ** _

At last, they had come.

It was time to fight, to kill, to avenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spartacus’ strategy of binding one Gaul and one German to each other and commanding them to fight as one amuses Oenomaus because it reminds him of the time he attempted (unsuccessfully) to get Spartacus and Crixus to set aside their grievances and fight as one against Theokoles. (^_~)
> 
> By now you’ve probably noted the absence of several canon events: Gannicus does NOT leave the rebels and return to Capua; Ilithyia does not spend any time at the temple as Spartacus’ captive (nor does Mira try to kill her); and the German warriors do not get their hands on significant quantities of wine (thanks to Duro being able to wrangle and redirect their energies -- THIS IS DURO’S AMAZING SUPER POWER).
> 
> Possibly because of Nasir’s conversation with Gannicus over how to correctly reckon their dead, Gannicus refuses to give up on Oenomaus’ friendship. Since Gannicus doesn’t go back to Capua, he doesn’t abduct Ilithyia. Glaber abandons the search of the countryside (which is like looking for a needle in a haystack) and sends Marcus to set a trap in Neapolis. The hostage exchange in Atella becomes the first decisive battle; Glaber never sets foot in the temple at Vesuvius.
> 
> Varinius, on the other hand, just might...
> 
> TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!!
> 
> But, while you’re here, tell me a thing you’re enjoying in APMF, yeah? It would make me SO HAPPY to hear from you, fandom friend. (^_^)


	14. Top of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mention of canon character DEATH, mention of GORE (violent and medicinal), desecration of the dead
> 
> Music rec: “Never Take Me Alive” by I Was The Lion

Sunset.

The horizon had been cleared of clouds at some point during the climb to mountain summit.  I looked to the south.  Pompeii sprawled like a lazy cat in the golden light.

The hand upon my shoulder stirred and I offered Agron a faint smile.  We stood here at cliff’s edge, just the two of us, on Duro’s teasing orders to “fuck off and kiss -- dance -- howl into fucking wind -- both of you ridiculous shits yet live -- be fucking glad of it!”

Yes, I was glad.  I was glad to yet count many friends among the living.  We yet stood.  We yet stood free.

But for how much longer?  The cache of supplies Spartacus and I had charged Santos with concealing at mountain’s top would see us sheltered from wind and rain.  Packs carried from temple cellar would see hollow bellies filled and parched throats soothed for a time.

A week easily.

Two if careful provisioning held despite gnawing hunger and throat-crumbling thirst.

We yet claimed survival as reward.

I squinted at distant, extravagant city, my upper lip tugging into a sneer.  What did those Romans know of survival?  What had Marius?

Nothing.

Relieve Romans of cloak and coin and discover naught but soft belly.  More delicate than fucking flowers.  We would show them this truth before the end.  They would come to understand the meaning of strength.  A little pain would not break us as it would them.

Again, Agron’s hand shifted, finding wind-chilled skin to warm.  My coat and his cloak rested -- tangled up -- somewhere among the packs and weapons.  Santos might know.  I was too raw to seek him out and ask.  Too distracted by the faces which could not be found here at sanctuary afforded by high ground: Rabanus, Fulco, Acer, Ortius, and Vitus now set foot upon a path I held no knowledge of.

“What thoughts take you?” Agron queried.  There was yet blood on his hands.  Blood on mine as well -- from battle, of course, and also from stitching closed oozing wounds among the Germans and Syrians under our collective charge.

“Rabanus,” I answered.

The fingers upon my shoulder tightened and I welcomed the strength of their grip -- his hand offered stability here at cliff’s edge, yes, but the gesture could additionally liken me to sword’s pommel.  I would fight again, taste blood again, kill Romans again.  Both Agron and I would.

“Hm,” Agron agreed.  “Rabanus.  I overheard him tell of gutting that fucking tribune pissant in Atella.”

When asked, my mentor had merely confirmed that it had been his sword to take Marcus’ life.  “Did he speak of what guided hand?  For what purpose he claimed blood?”

Agron chuckled.  “For repayment of fucking insult.”

I had not heard of this.  “Marcus caused Rabanus offense?”

“The greatest that men of our kind can suffer.”  I glanced up and Agron’s chin tilted to the side in surprise.  He spoke as if marveling that I stood ignorant of this thing: “Rabanus brought you up himself, brought out the might of you.  You’ve earned the right to die a warrior, not a fucking helpless prisoner.”

Fisting my right hand, I slugged Agron lightly in the side.  Just enough to make him twitch.  “With naught but bare rock beneath our feet do not goad me to demonstrate how fucking helpless I _****wasn’t****_ in that arena.”

He mauled me into the circle of his arms and I permitted it.  For a moment.  I tucked my grin against a mostly clean patch of skin.

“I had never stood more glad for opportunity to train beside you in ludus,” Agron confessed, grin audibly fading with each word.  “Seeing you on the sands in shackles -- absent armor -- absent weapon of worth…”

I felt him shake his head in pained silence, burrowing into my wind-whipped and grimy hair.  Twining my arms around his waist, I gave reminder: “But a moment was needed for me to acquire the latter.”

“So it was.  Though obtaining spear required _****two.****  _ Was the retiarius’ net not first?” Agron made attempt to tease, but merely proved that he had committed each move of that fight to memory.  Vivid record etched with pride and awe and terror and, perhaps, fury at his own limitations as he’d waited for arena seating to collapse and distraction take effect.

“Apologies,” I quipped lightly, “I shall not permit capture a second time.”

Agron’s palm lifted from my shoulder and cupped the back of my head.  “I would come for you regardless.”

He would.  He would fight through Rome itself to liberate my corpse.  Fuck.  Forcing a swallow, I harrumphed flatly, “Well.  Then I must make effort worthwhile.”

“As you have always done.”

Lowering my brow to the scar upon his chest, I laughed once, the sound of it popping -- bursting wetly like a full wine skin squeezed too tightly.  “Have I?  You exerted much effort to win me and I denied your lips a kiss for weeks.”  Rocking my head back and forth against his bouncing chest, I admitted, “And the first you were driven to steal!”

“I stole nothing!” he protested happily.  “Foisted, perhaps.”

Ah, yes.  Because he had given rather than taken.  Because this was Agron’s way.  For his own sake or mine, I knew not.  It was of no consequence, either way; we stood indivisible, he and I.

“I misspoke,” I apologized, lifting chin and meeting his chapped lips with mine.  The wind had long since scrubbed the warmth from our flesh.  Forming scabs snagged, but there was nothing ailing tongue.  I pressed upon back of waist and nape of neck, herding him closer, denying the whipping chill passage between us.

We kissed and I forgot my exhaustion, my heartache, my worries.  Too many Gauls and Germans and Syrians had suffered wounds in battle.  Too many friends had not joined us here at end of narrow, perilous path.  Too many lazy, Roman soldiers camped at mountain’s foot, pleased to enforce siege until we grew crazed with hunger and made easy work for them.  Our most recent lookout had reported that the praetor’s men had already begun to cut wood for crosses.

I would not ask Agron to endure the iron nails so long as he would not ask the same of me.

A light tug upon trouser pant leg pulled me from both doomed thoughts and intimate kiss.  I glanced down at the perturbed expression on Oruros’ little face.  He protested with angry pout: “Nasir kiss Agron much.”

Agron threw back his head and boomed a laugh at the darkening dome of the sky.  “I hold no complaints,” he gleefully volunteered.

I pursed my lips in effort to smother grin.  Oruros had recently learned how to scrape the flesh from a man’s shin with naught but bare toenails.  I would not test his proficiency.  “Apologies, Oruros.  What do you require?”

He glanced back over his shoulder to where Adal stood at a respectable -- or wary -- distance.  Adal accepted his cue and explained: “Oruros and his friends would hear of the day’s battle.”

Were they not too young to dream of blood and gore?

Perhaps, but horror was no stranger to those who passed through the belly of slaver’s ship.

“Does Adal speak truth, Oruros?” I inquired.  “Would you hear me tell of battle?”

“Nasir fight Romans!  Tell!” he commanded with all the aplomb of a king.

Agron wisely aimed his giggle into the wind.

My own I tucked deep into belly and ceded: “So be it.”

The Syrians were not alone in desiring to hear an account.  A great many German warriors took up position upon fringes of our assembly, perhaps with intent of ensuring their deeds were properly lauded.  Agron claimed the seat beside me and Duro accepted translator’s post beside him.  Adal perched on a large, flat rock on my other side, through not nearly as close as Agron, and the children gathered their bedding, arranging their woven grass mats into a large nest and pulling either tanned hides or stolen cloaks around their bodies, pressing together for warmth and simple comfort.

When the smallest boys and girls turned to shush the irreverent whispers and grumblings of mighty warriors, I decided against further delay and began recounting events at singular moment of mindless terror: “Romans!”

That night, high up on mountain trail, vigilant lookout had glimpsed the shimmer of torch light through the screen of trees and brush.  Drawing flame from the small fire he had diligently fed twigs for warmth, he had signaled to the men who stood watch upon temple wall.

_****Romans.** ** _

When the dawn arrived, so would they.

Men, women, and children had all been quickly awakened and set to purpose.

This portion of the tale, the children already knew, so I did not waste their patience on how they had hastened through cellar’s tunnel to undertake the path to Vesuvius’ summit.  We had practiced more than once; even had they moved absent lookout’s distant campfire, they would have found their way.  I’d held no concern for them once they’d left my sight.  Not solely because of their competence but because there simply had not been a moment to spare for worries.

Still, I paused now and praised them -- good girls and boys, all.

I permitted myself a moment to bask in their smiles and then I drew breath.

I spoke of the archers who had waited in the woods for Roman infantry to draw near.

I told of the dozen men -- Agron, Duro, and myself included -- who had charged out to surprise the front line with vicious attack, harrying Roman minds that had been marched numb with exhaustion into a frenzy and goading them to charge recklessly into a rain of arrows.

With sweep of arm, I shocked wide-eyed audience with arriving cavalry which had crashed and thrashed through the ranks, spears in hand, providing archers and warriors opportunity to withdraw.

And then, as in the battle previous, Germans and Gauls had rushed in upon army’s flanks.

_****Clap!** ** _

The children jumped when I brought my palms together.  The sound cracked over barren rock loud enough to startle a few eavesdropping warriors as well.

One by one, more of Spartacus’ followers gathered close enough to hear.  Crixus offered translation in the language of the Gauls and four tongues tangled together in our camp, knitting us together in spite of the ease with which the Sisters cut thread.

I gladly gave over the telling to those who would interject boasts of prowess or homage to fallen friends.  Throat tight, I applauded skirmishes boldly reenacted.  My fist surged into the air every time a warrior told of how he or she had spilled Roman blood.  I grinned and laughed and rolled my eyes at blatant embellishments.

There was no need to embellish the fate of Lucius’ temple.

Overrun with hundreds of Romans.  Flames licking pitch-splattered corridors.  Rather than allow it to fall into enemy hands, we had destroyed the stores and pallets.  Anything that had been left behind was now ash.  Had there been time to kill the horses, we would have seen their meat rot rather than fill Roman bellies.

These details I did not give voice.  I spoke instead of Agron and Crixus and their bravery as they’d stood with Spartacus, a wall of flame forcing the praetor and his men to retreat.  This scene in particular caught the children’s fancy and I expected they would play it out among themselves to fill the hours of the coming days.

It was a relief that they would not realize the precariousness of our survival.  Not yet.

The stars had spiraled toward midnight before all of the little monsters fell to slumber and battle-weary Germans, Gauls, and Syrians joined them behind closed eyelids.

Only then did the Brotherhood gather to mourn our lost fellows: Plenus, Sophus, Tychos, Liscus…

“They fell in battle as all men should,” Rhaskos observed, scowling into the flames of honorary pyre.  I could not recall the last time I had laid eyes upon his face absent grin, be it playful, impish, or jeering.

“With weapon in hand and blood upon thoughts,” Duro agreed with equal sobriety.

Spartacus mourned in silence.

I sought Mira and offered my hand in memory of our friendly Roman Lucius.  He had insisted on remaining in his perch atop roof, bow in hand and arrows eager to nip Roman flesh.  He had slowed our enemies’ blind attempts to scale temple wall.  I had not even known of Lucius’ sacrifice until I’d noticed his absence at mountain top and asked of his whereabouts to a despondent Spartacus and puffy-eyed Mira.

To Naevia, who had threaded her arm through Mira’s, I offered opposite shoulder, gesturing her close, and we embraced tightly over Medicus.  He’d seen Simon securely bound to Lugo’s back for escape, pausing at cellar tunnel’s exit to assist with makeshift harness… and there he had taken thrown Roman spear in chest.  A single spear amid a sudden flurry, inflicting mortal wound.

Agron and Duro’s German kin, just emerged from tunnel, had fought the Romans moving to cut off planned escape.  My eleven Syrian men had readily lent aid in demolishing Roman ranks.  Had Nemetes, Totus, and Adal failed to rally their brethren and drive back the Romans, everyone who had yet fought within temple yard would have been doomed... myself and my Germans included.

We owed them great and genuine gratitude for their efforts.  And yet relief for friends who yet drew breath did not lessen the grief for the ones lost.

Medicus must have scowled and cursed for the final time as I had fought beside Agron and Duro and Saxa and Sedullus within temple yard among Gannicus, Oenomaus, Crixus, Rhesius, and Spartacus.  Medicus -- the man who had stitched me together -- the cantankerous cranky shit who had saved me from succumbing to festering wound of both body and spirit time and time again -- had passed from this life absent friendly touch or fond smile.

I envied Naevia the release her tears offered.  Though I permitted Crixus to briefly catch me in the embrace that he enfolded her within -- and though I was grateful for the comfort he attempted to provide -- my only solace would be found in rage.

Long after sleep managed to soothe Agron and Duro, I lay awake between them.  A motion at the corner of my eye: Simon sitting up among the slumbering men and women that he’d formed bond with under tribulations of slavery to Neapolis whoremonger.

Disentangling myself from long, German limbs, I gingerly picked my way past carelessly flung arms and legs to settle at Simon’s back and offer myself as brace for his shuddering form.  His sobs were silent, shaking him harder than any chill.  I curled an arm around his waist and watched the stars smear and blur before my own eyes.

“He would lecture,” Simon whispered at length.

“He nattered, complained, and fussed,” I corrected.

The young man released a sudden puff of breath.  “Fuck.  He did.  But beneath it, he spoke his wisdom.  Ears need only stand open to receive it.”

“Yes.”

“Fucking Romans!” Simon choked, bit, snarled.  “They take the best of us!”

A woman upon neighboring pallet shifted restlessly, a frown briefly marring smooth brow, before she twisted onto opposite side and settled.  I looked beyond her form and found Duro’s eyes open and focused upon me.  I did not know if the wind delivered my words to him, but I made no effort to exclude him from my regard: “Not before their best is shared with us.  A gift beyond measure.  Only a fool would let it fall to waste.”

“I owe him my life,” Simon despaired.  “Useless hands and crippled feet.  How is this not a waste of his efforts?”

“If your hands cannot cleanse wound or sew stitches or mash herbs for poultice, then direct another’s.  With apt words and careful forethought, you will lead.  This thing you can accomplish, Simon.”

He broke no words in response, but accepted my offer to shoulder weight as he wept.

I did not imagine Duro’s proud grin and nod in the moonlight.

Dawn arrived to find me once again snuggled between my Germans.  Peering up and over Duro’s shoulder, I found Simon resting, exhausted from grief.

A new day awaited.

Boasts of favored accomplishments in battle summoned smatterings of admirers, but for those seeking to pass time with activity, the Brotherhood offered light exercise.  As there was little aside from scrapes and bruises to be gained from contact with bald rock, no one put forth full effort in sparring, choosing to preserve strength and extend duration of most recent meal’s ration within belly.

Thoughts of conservation prevented neither Duro nor myself from issuing sharp dig and playful sting:

“Nasir!  Where do you hoard the oil for fucking my brother senseless!”

“You seek it because you hold desire toward receiving the same?”

“I make no guess as to why Euclid seeks it, but I would cleanse with strigil, of fucking course!”

“Hm.  How considerate to those who stand downwind of you.”

“Fuck off.  I smell of--”

“The blood, sweat, piss, and the fear of Romans.”

“--apple blossoms and… er, on second thought, I proudly wear the aroma you describe.”

“And gain a great number of admirers.”

“You yet tolerate Agron.  That alone provides more than sufficient evidence that I shall find myself recipient of great enthusiasm for my charms.”

“Only should he or she lack sense of smell.”

“You are fucking irritating.”

“I am training with spear at present.  That you mistake my efforts for fucking is indeed cause for concern.”

“Well, I would have thought you making cheese except I see no goats.”

“Goats.  Yes, you would naturally take immediate notice of them.”

“You bleat as one.”

“I’ll still not fuck you, Duro.”

His mouth gaped open at the blunt refusal and in the beat of silence that passed, I smirked my victory. Gannicus chortled.  Crixus wheezed.  Agron giggled.  Spartacus huffed an exasperated breath through a smile.

“Fucking Syrian!” Duro rallied.

I smugly retorted, “Little brother.”

He launched himself at me.

We wrestled.

He gained more bruises and scrapes than I did.  I counted it a second victory.

Days passed.  Despite careful allotment, rations of grain, cured meat, and water dwindled.

The children grew quiet; they had at last noticed how closely death loomed over us all.  I gave them my smiles, for that was all I yet possessed in any appreciable quantity.  And even then there were times when that simple gesture seemed finite in number.

The day I took a turn as lookout upon mountain path and watched as Roman soldiers taunted the bodies of my fallen brothers hung by ankles from high bough -- stabbing cold flesh as small boys whack a dead cat with sticks -- stood as one such occasion.  Medicus’ corpse had been nailed to a cross that our captors gleefully pissed upon.  The lifeless forms of my allies, friends, and brothers bloated with the indignity of rot, and I nearly put my fist through Nemetes’ sneering grin during our mock sparring match that evening.

I held no love for the scheming German who could ever be found at Sedullus’ back, egging the brute on and aggravating the man’s ego with exaggerated reports of slights, but the ones I truly wished to cause harm remained at a distance.

Fucking Roman shit.

“We will end them all,” I informed Agron, gaze trained upon distant horizon and arms crossed with grip tight against lashing out.  This evening, there was no sunset -- no golden glow.  Clouds had gathered steadily throughout the day, grumbling like empty bellies.  Discontented and resentful.

Agron pressed cracked and split lips to my temple.  It had been days since we’d kissed absent the taste of blood upon tongue.  “Every last one will fall before you.”

I grinned at the reminder and felt scabs tear open.  I could only imagine how terrible my smile appeared, but Agron looked as thrilled and proud as ever to have summoned it.

This man.  Fuck the gods.  I would take him for my own and leave the gods naught but shit and piss for tribute.

We did not rise with the following dawn so much as wince to our feet, flexing aching hips and throbbing shoulders.  Our ribs, bruised from too many restless nights spent upon bed of unforgiving stone and jagged rocks.  The grass mats had dried and splintered and now scraped flesh raw in exchange for minimal barrier against wind-chilled mountain.

As Santos distributed morning potions, I retreated to cliff’s edge to piss.  Agron and Duro took advantage of calm breeze to do the same.  The clouds hovered like paving stones overhead.

Perhaps it was their weight which directed my gaze downward and into woodland yet unmolested by Roman presence.  For a heartbeat -- two at most -- I stared unseeing at the fabric caught high upon skeletal tree.  No wind flapped its edges.  No sunny beams lent illusion of vibrancy to its hue.

A Roman red cloak.  Strung high in a tree.  In full view of mountain’s summit, yet concealed from enemy gaze by forest canopy.

The signal.

The fucking signal.

“Spartacus!” I bellowed, barely remembering to knot trouser drawstring.

Agron followed my gaze.  Stiffened with recognition.

Duro laughed with such exuberance that surely the army stirring sleepily in mountain’s shadow believed madness had taken us.

The Thracian answered call, stepped up to ledge, and smiled.  “Now,” he murmured, “it is time to make our harvest and take reckoning.”

Indeed it was.  It fucking was.

We set hands to task.

Ropes were woven from the woody vines that crawled desperately over mountainside.  Split lengthwise with sword and knife edge and swiftly braided before the parched air stole what damp pliability could be found among the fibers.  A fair amount of blood shed in response to bark’s bite painted the weave.

Our endeavor required the majority of the day.  When Agron attempted to brush aside my raw hands and take his turn at task, I nudged him back with thrust from elbow and shoulder.

“Save skin for assigned charge,” I gritted out.

Sighing, he tended to loosened tendrils of hair instead, weaving the strands tightly against my skull in effort to prevent whiplashes upon stinging eyes and sore lips.  He then kissed my brow and left to hack free additional creeping branches to further our collective aim.

I held neither desire nor intention to be short-tempered with him.  This had always stood our plan: draw in Roman forces, claim high ground for ourselves, lull the enemy into overconfidence at the apparent inevitability of our defeat, and then launch assault under cover of night.

By the time Spartacus had returned from secret venture in Pompeii, Santos and I had stood ready with estimate: the mountain offered enough accessible material for the construction of several ropes of a length to span distance between summit’s ledge and cliff’s base.  Lack of water for soaking the fibers meant we would be forced to harvest and work with green vines the day before undertaking counter attack, but we had been confident of fashioning three ropes at fewest, and five at most.

We now crafted four.

The men who would repel upon them had been decided well in advance and no serious injury forced substitution: Spartacus, Gannicus, Crixus, and Agron.

“I do not care for it, either,” Duro offered, giving the fibers’ loose ends a taut jerk.  Small hands further down ensured that the shredded vines remained untangled and ready for braiding.

Duro grunted irritably, squinting after Agron’s retreating form: “The pompous fuck always claims glory enough for two men.  In recent days, three.”

I bowed my head rather than reveal the scowl that his words pulled from me; I was aware Duro put effort toward gaining my smile, but my thoughts had turned toward the ludus and Duro’s challenge to Crixus -- a sound strategy at the time and under the circumstances.  I did not ask why the strongest of us three was required for tonight’s test of courage.  Neither did Duro offer to take his brother’s place.

Evening meal was taken in edgy silence.  Anticipation and uncertainty ebbing-and-flowing in alternating measures.  Agron permitted himself to be wedged between me and Duro, arms rubbing and elbows bumping.  He finished his portion first and curled an arm around each of us.

Once food had settled in bellies, Spartacus stood with purpose and reached out with his gaze to the three men who would accompany him into abyss.

Agron turned to Duro first and I glanced away, firming my resolve.  I would not send my lover from sight on fearful tidings.  This was not the ludus and I no longer stood a house slave who denied heart.  I would not hide my love for it was this very thing that gave us the strength to do whatever necessary in order to lay eyes upon each other again in this life.

Whispered German words.  Hands grasping shoulders tight enough to bruise.  Brows tilted together.  Duro quipped.  Agron chuckled and, stepping back, lightly cuffed him upon back of head.  Duro shoved him toward me and called out to Sedullus on some excuse, allowing us a private moment.

Truly, Duro possessed uncommon understanding of a man’s heart.  Both his brother’s and mine.

Agron and I drifted close in silence.

A kiss.  Fingers sifting through hair and palm against skin, measuring lifeblood’s pulse.  Chin angled to bring gazes level.

“Should you require the aid of your brothers--” I began.

And Agron finished: “My brothers will never permit me to forget it.”

Just so.  “Fight for us,” I bid him, teeth bared and lips pulled back in taut snarl, “and kill many Romans.”

“Hurry to my side,” he answered in mock seriousness, “so that you may claim some for yourself.”

A second kiss -- a hard clash of lips -- and when I pressed palm to chest, he stepped back.

The moment he grasped rough rope in hand, I no longer resented Agron’s role in risky venture.  He grinned, eyes bright at the promise of coming battle.  Of course.  How could I have forgotten the difference between us?  He relished opportunity to confront danger and death; I dreaded it.

The wind gusted suddenly and thunder boomed overhead.  Agron’s smile flashed like lightning.  “The gods pen fucking invitation!”

“To worthwhile celebration,” Gannicus giggled.

Crixus looked to Spartacus and said, “Then let us make appearance.”

With a glance to Rhaskos, Duro, and myself, Spartacus nodded and took up rope.

Agron stepped to cliff’s edge.

I braced legs, lent strength to those who acted as counterweight, and held tight as rope drew taut.

A second clap from the angry heavens.

Before the third came, all four men had disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Nasir doesn’t actually know which praetor was sent to stop the rebels, he’s unnamed but, yes, we’re talking about Publius Varinius.
> 
> Just to be clear, the named canon characters who died in battle are: Medicus, Lucius (the Roman), Liscus (the Gaul), Plenus, Sophus, and Tychos.
> 
> We do not know where Vitus, Rabanus, Ortius, and Acer are at the moment or if they’re still alive… but someone put that Roman soldier’s cloak high up in a tree for the rebels to see, so there’s an ally down there somewhere. (^_~)
> 
> TO BE CONTINUED!!!


	15. Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE and DEATH (battle), TORTURE (crucifixion), FAREWELLS (funeral rites and mourning), SEXYTIMES

Thunder.

The clouds pulsed with it.  Vibrations pressed against lungs as vine rope in grasp pulled heart out through fingertips.  Duro and I stared hard at rocky ledge, jaw clenched and molars grinding, clutching the artery that sustained our brother’s life.

None of us stood close enough to cliff’s edge to claim view of what occurred beyond.  And even in this moonless, starless gloom, there was nothing for eyes to see.

We dared measured breaths.

We held tight.

We waited.

The men and women anchoring Spartacus’ rope stumbled against sudden slack and then the rope shared between my grasp and Duro’s lost tension.

Next came Crixus’.

And finally Gannicus’.

We glared at the ledge, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.  Hoping this signaled coordinated and intentional effort rather than mishap--

A sharp tug.  And then a second.  A third.  Agron’s feet had found purchase and the immediate path ahead was clear.

“Pull up!” Duro shouted to everyone in our line and with slow, deliberate steps, the heavy rope was retracted.

“Archers!” Mira called and Naevia leaped nimbly over any obstacle between her hands and quiver of arrows.

I found Adal and called the children near.  “Duro!” I dared interrupt his own preparations.  “Your ax!”

He jogged over, still buckling his sword belt.  A second that I recognized as mine was snugly tucked beneath his armpit.  “We’ll need a cutting surface,” he assessed.  “Gather the sleeping mats, six thick.”

The children complied as I accepted my weapon from Duro’s grasp, freeing his arms.  “Shall I begin?” he asked once the rope had been laid across the stacked mats.

I gestured for the children to ready the lengths of twine they’d twisted from weaker vines, and then I nodded for Duro to go ahead.

The rope was chopped into smaller sections and the ends tied with twine to prevent unraveling.  To each new end, I assigned a boy or girl.  Once all had been given charge, I spoke instruction carefully through Adal’s translation, unwilling to rely on their patchy understanding of common tongue for a task of such monumental importance.  I directed them to repeat directives and vow to do as bidden.

Once they had promised, I looked to Adal.  “Find and don blade.  Santos!” I shouted and he came over.  He, too, wore a sword at hip, but his skill with it was marginal at best.  “Stay with the children.  Keep them upon sheltered path until way to forest is cleared of Romans.”

“Your will, my hands.”

I offered my gratitude.  A tug upon my trouser pant leg delayed my departure.  I looked down to find Oruros, Theleda, and Thelmenis gathered close.  Each face open and gaze seeking.  Reassurance, I realized.  They sought a gesture of my confidence in them.

I provided it.

Leaning down, I pressed a soft kiss to Oruros’ brow.  To Theleda’s when she eagerly stepped close.  To Thelmenis’.  I kissed the brow of every child who permitted it and patted the shoulders of those who stood at arm’s length.  Thirty-seven boys and girls clutching rope between them.  Twenty-four young men and women wearing knives in addition to bow and arrow.

I leaned toward Adal and asked: “I would not wish them luck for they will make their own, but I would tell them in their words of my pride and love.”

With a smile, he gave brief utterance.  I repeated it, marveling at how it rolled off of tongue.  Fitting mouth perfectly despite being empty of meaning to me.  Adal nodded and I turned toward my charges to give my farewell.  Spoke it boldly.

The children beamed.

The older ones stood taller.

“I will see you soon,” I vowed.  Either in this life or the next, it would be so.

A final call to the archers -- I grasped Adal’s arm.  “I join you once my duties are complete.”

“We await.”

Jogging toward Mira and the trail head, I patted Duro’s arm in passing as he instructed Totus in passing out lit torches.  Naevia stood at rear of gathering, gesturing her team to take position.  Mira had claimed the front with clear intention to lead as Spartacus would.  Halting briefly at her side, we shared a grin.  One that Lysandros came over to share.  Tilius as well.  The three of us, slender of form and quick with blade, moved to begin descent along night shrouded trail.  We had all acted as lookouts, so our feet knew the path ahead.  Still, progress was slow.  Cautious.  Silent.

Mira’s team shadowed us and Naevia’s lingered to take the rear.  The wind sighed and coughed as if burdened by the weight of rumbling clouds.

When we reached lookout’s position midway down the narrow trail, I nodded greeting to the man posted: Libo.

He wedged himself into rocky fissure to make room for us to pass and patted my shoulder as I moved by.  Following the last of Naevia’s archers, he would make his way back to mountain summit.  Duro and Rhaskos would then lead the Germans and Gauls and Syrians down.

But first, the archers would have to find position and line of sight upon soldiers standing guard at path’s origin.  Time held no meaning so long as it was yet night.  I could spare no thought for any matter beyond placement of feet and possible confrontation ahead.

And then--

Romans.

The fools had built a fucking campfire.  I caught scent of wood smoke and roasting meat before turning corner and spotting light from flickering flame in the distance.  A fair distance, but not beyond the range of Mira’s arrows.  Signaling for Lysandros and Tilius to halt position, I sheathed sword to conceal metal’s reflective surface and crouched low, shifted beyond rocky turn, and prayed my dark hair, skin, and clothes would liken my form to a shadow upon gray rock.

Drawing close enough to take in the scene, I counted eight men.  Four in armor and four reclining upon pallets at fireside.  They chatted.  Stood and stretched and stared into the woods.  Grumbled about the unpalatable state of their bread while those back at camp enjoyed fresh fare.

I retreated, gave report, and then Lysandros and Tilius accompanied me as Mira and her people knocked arrows.  What would follow would be the surest test of our trust in one another, but I gave no hesitation.

I led my friends within range of firelight.  Paused.  Held fast until Mira tapped Tilius’ shoulder and he, in turn, tapped Lysrandros’, who then tapped mine.

One more breath and then I unsheathed blade and launched.

Dived from elevated path and onto the dusty plain where the soldiers made camp.

Hissed as my feet connected with earth for the first time in ten days.  Knees bent in crouch, I lunged and sprinted for the furthest men -- the ones who might sound alarm or escape -- and left the two closest for Lysandros and Tilius.

The rasp of weapons being drawn.  Startled gasps.  A shout.  A cough-cry-gurgle.

The whistle of an arrow screaming past my ear.

My blade struck aside opponent’s with an echoing _****clang!****_  and then, spinning, my sword drew a line through flesh across throat and hot blood sprayed-pulsed-splashed upon my face and arms.

Fuck.  It had been far too long.

I pivoted, taking in the scene.  Lysandros was yanking sword from the opened side of his fallen opponent.  Tilius panted over a third body.  Others groaned and whimpered from arrow’s strike.  I raced to the nearest victim of archer’s aim and sliced his throat.  Lysandros swiftly copied me.  Tilius startled at the movement as if waking from mesmerizing spell, leaping to send nearest writhing Roman to the afterlife.

“Well done,” I spoke to Lysandros and reached out hand to Tilius.  He looked up at contact of palm to shoulder.

“My first kill,” he panted.  Then, glancing down at the man whose blood had just been spilled beneath his blade, he amended, “and second.”

I nodded.  Grinned.  “You are not for the mines this day.”

He heaved a silent bark of laughter.  “Fuck the gods.  I am not!”

“Come,” I urged and the three of us moved to take up position among the trees, watching for enemy approach as the archers completed their descent and melted into the forest.

“So,” Lysandros murmured as the moments stretched on in complete silence, “Romans felled by arrows -- we may claim the kill should our blade see them to the afterlife?”

I heard Mira harrumph at the cocky enquiry, but it was Naevia who clarified the issue, an edge of steel to her words: “Should the Roman yet stand when sword pierces flesh, yes.  Count him as yours.”

Tilius pouted: “And should he already lie flat upon back when bloodletting occurs?”

Mira informed: “Then congratulate yourself on completion of assigned task.”

I could fairly hear her roll her eyes in exasperation and added my voice to discussion: “A completed charge is its own reward, my friends.”

“Ugh,” Tilius objected.  “You choose now of all times to quote Marius?”

“Are you not further motivated to slay Roman shit?” I jested.

“Hm.  More so than ever before,” Lysandros merrily contributed.

With intent reaffirmed, we lapsed into silence once more, marking the passing of night not by movement of stars but the intermittent, booming thunder.  Truly, we could not have chosen better conditions for unleashing ourselves upon unsuspecting enemy.

And distant brothers: were they also blessed by good fortune?  Spartacus, Gannicus, Crixus, and Agron -- had they seen their duties to completion?  What manner of battle awaited us in Roman camp?  Did my brothers suffer wounds or--

No.  I bid my mind halt, set aside speculation, and seek another distraction.

Still, the lack of commotion from distant Roman encampment in temple meadow indicated favorable conditions.  Yes, I would believe this rather than concern myself with what I did not know.

Regardless, we would soon learn the answers to all queries… one way or another.

“Torches sighted upon the path!” Naevia breathed, passing the information to us from scouts charged with watching for the warriors’ progress.

I fairly held my breath until the light appeared before my own eyes -- a long line snaking along winding trail.  And if I could see them, then so too could Spartacus and his men.

The countdown had begun.

First came Rhaskos with the Gallic warriors.  Then Adal with the ten Syrian men who stood capable of battle.  Next Duro and the Germans.  Finally Santos and the children.

Nodding to Rhaskos in passing, I paused beside Duro for a moment.

He grumbled, “Should the Romans remain blind to our arrival, they deserve full fucking measure of the death we bring.”

“They deserve it either way,” I lectured and received an irreverent grin and snort.

Approaching Adal, he assured me that everyone stood ready.  Santos directed the children to place their own torches aside in the Roman campfire and then the archers came forward to each claim a rope-bearing team to move with them in the darkness and take position.

Rhaskos and Rhesius remained with Duro and Sedullus, standing beside Lysandros, Tilius, and myself as the others hurried to flanking positions.

“How many do they send?” Tilius wondered.

“At this time of night?” Duro lightly replied.  “As many as they can kick awake!”

Rhaskos laughed.  “A number too small for all of us to enjoy.”

“Would you claim first--”

The sound of advancing footsteps forestalled Duro’s playful retort.

“Ah, Romans come,” Rhesius rumbled from between his scarred lips.

Through gritted teeth, I hissed: “Then let us begin.”

Begin.

Begin.

Begin.

A word like any other I had spoken-heard-read-written in my life and yet it held singular power to change a man from amicable companion to bloodthirsty beast.

Now was no different.

We charged forward to meet the front line of troops, taking no care to quiet our steps.  As soon as the soldiers heard us, they broke ranks, rushing forward in the darkness.  Duro let loose a battle cry that the rest of us matched and then--

Bodies crashing together--

Blades and shields clattering and scraping in the darkness--

The fallen underfoot, arrows unleashed under cover of our roaring screams--

Gauls closed in from the right--

Germans and Syrians from the left--

Those who sought escape into the woods were tripped upon unseen rope held tightly by small hands and Roman throat promptly slit by attending archer.

The skirmish ended quickly.  Too quickly.

Less than a hundred had been sent to investigate the ribbon of torch lights on the trail.

“Indeed, there were not enough for all of us,” Lysandros observed, grinning through the smears of blood and splatters of gore upon his face.

“Then let us seek more!” Duro invited.

More.  An entire camp full of Romans stood between us and Spartacus, Gannicus, Crixus, Agron.  I would fight at their side before the night was out.

Deeper into the dark woods, we moved with increasing confidence.  Nearing familiar terrain not far from the temple, a series of sounds unlike any we had heard before gave us pause:

An echoing _****snap!****_  of wood.

A _****thunk!****_  of heavy weight dropping.

A roaring _****whoosh!****_ of flame shooting overhead and--

_****CRASH!** ** _

Balls of flaming pitch-coated, straw-covered stone hurled from catapult exploded in temple yard, smashed through wall and ceiling.

Shouts.  Soldiers shocked awake by attack upon their praetor’s position.

Well, what did the fuck expect?  Taking up residence in fucking temple like an arrogant cockstroke eager to display his balls.  He would roast in the flames should he waste time with posturing now.

I grinned and quickly called to the men nearest my position -- “Totus!  Lugo!  Adal!  With me!”

Though Totus and Lugo frowned in confusion, none of the men summoned hesitated as I crashed through the woods.  Only when I slowed and gestured for them to quiet their steps did Lugo mutter, “No Romans here!”

“Not yet,” I agreed, focus trained ahead, “but if we are very lucky, we may yet catch ourselves a Roman praetor.”

We did.  When the cowardly shit made mistake of passing through the tunnel we ourselves had dug and utilized for escape, the four of us stood ready.

I lifted my arm in signal for all to halt position and take pause.

One soldier emerged.  A second.  And then the praetor -- his plumed helmet unmistakable.

_****NOW!** ** _

We surged from the underbrush, converged upon a cluster of five men who were attempting to gain their bearings absent stars or landmarks.

We had them.

In the moment of shock gained from sudden ambush, I slammed pommel of sword against the praetor’s helmet, knocking him to the ground before slicing one of his men along sword arm and inner thigh.  A jab to throat saw him dead and my attention returned to the man we had captured as Adal, Totus, and Lugo finished dispatching their own unprepared opponents.

I kicked the prisoner over, dodged the sweep of blade -- a dirty trick I had learned from the Veteran and screamed warning to Duro of in the arena -- and knocked gladius from grasp with a smart rap of metal upon knuckles.  Were all Roman’s so fucking helpless and useless or was this goatfuck an exception?

To make the doomed fuck’s acquaintance, I ripped helmet from head.

“You,” I spat, recognizing the man despite his wide-eyed terror.

Varinius blinked, squinted, and matched my face to memory.  “Fucking slave--!”

I slammed fist against his jaw.  He cried out, dazed and disoriented from the blow.  Fucking Romans.  So delicate.  What sport was there in besting them?

“Adal!” I barked. “Your belt.”  As it was the narrowest of any that we four wore, it would serve.

Totus grunted in disgust.

Lugo accused, “If Nasir claims not his life, then Lugo take it!”

“No!” I commanded, shoving the praetor onto his belly and binding his arms behind back with the length of woven leather.  “He lives.  As gift to Spartacus.”

One that would be _****most****_  well received.

“Take him,” I directed Adal, “and inform the first pair of archers to cross path that they now stand guard.”

“To preserve his life?” my countryman sneered with confusion.

I smirked.  “No, to provide us with his death.  Of a manner of our choosing and at our leisure.”

This satisfied everyone but the Roman praetor who spat obscenities at us.  I mentioned to Adal that the praetor would have no further need of teeth or tongue.  In fact, their removal might make him more agreeable company.

The Roman shut his mouth.  Clenched jaw.  Seethed.

Heady with accomplishment, I set foot toward sounds of battle, outdistancing Totus and Lugo easily through the woods.

The clash of blades.

Cries of pain.

Roars -- of men’s voices and flames alike.

A cacophony of chaos I was coming to know and appreciate as much as popular compositions played at Roman celebrations.

Trees thinned before me and I emerged into Libo’s once-peaceful meadow now streaked with ribbons of flame and smudges of dying men.

The Roman camp was in shambles.  Tents collapsed.  Soldiers caught unprepared in naught but shifts and tunics attempting to fight back barbarian warriors.  They swiped knife or stew pot or stick of kindling through the air in desperate attempt to delay death.

But death would not be denied.  Even before I drew close enough to take part, I witnessed the fall of a dozen soldiers.  The ground darkened with their blood.

A Roman emerging from left side tent.  My sword slit him from neck to navel -- and then Doctore’s criticism prodded me to stab deep into lung.  Pry his body off of blade with braced foot.  Seek another to kill.

I easily found one.  And then another.  And another.  And then--

_****Agron!** ** _

The besotted fool stood not three paces away, covered in blood and beaming at me in a manner I knew well.  My blood heated and lips curled in reply.

Motion at his back--shadows stirring--

I launched myself at my lover, ducked under his reach, rolled-and-gained feet and barked a cry of triumph in the face of the bloodied Roman fuck who had nearly rammed sword through my lover’s back.

I was close enough to watch the light leave the shit’s eyes.  Close enough to smell his last breath as blood poured out from between gaping lips.  Close enough to be splattered with sweat and gore as he crumpled to the ground.

Such was the price of daring to harm one of my Germans.

I spun back around -- taking in the sight of a battle won and enemies being swiftly dispatched to the afterlife -- and found Agron’s sparkling, amorous gaze gliding greedily over my form.  “Fuck,” he summarized.  “Man or god, fuck me, Nasir.”

With a laugh, I stepped close, smearing and sharing the grime on our skin and, inspired by Santos’ recent vow, murmured, “Your will, my hands.”

“And your cock,” he insisted on a husky whisper, ducking down to kiss me.  The blood from our wind-split lips mingling with whatever gore our skin had gained in battle and--fuck.  This man.

“Ugh!”  Duro accused: “Can the two of you not wait until the battle is properly won to fuck?”

“Our little brother reeks of jealousy,” I joked just loud enough for Duro to hear.

“Find a hole to shit in,” Duro demanded, still panting from exertion but brimming with prideful accomplishment.  “I counted fourteen Roman goat cunts sent to the afterlife.  How many do you claim, eh?”

“Eight, perhaps nine,” Agron replied, slinging an arm over my shoulders.

“The same,” I agreed, honestly unsure but beyond giving shit for it.

“Pfft,” Duro dismissed.

I grinned widely and revealed: “Though the one I spared may be worth more to us than all slain in combined effort.”

Duro’s jaw dropped in disbelief.  “Worth more--fucking--what meaning do you bleat?”

“Where stands Spartacus?” I delayed.  “I would gather those of the Brotherhood for celebration.”

Duro huffed and nodded across the decimated camp where Spartacus stalked between bodies.  The man at his side stabbed ruthlessly at a fallen Roman with spear, sending the fuck on his way to meet the Ferryman.  And the man who skillfully wielded spear--

Rabanus.

Putting aside news of captured praetor for a moment, I hailed my mentor: “You return to feasts of blood and glory!”

He laughed and we clasped hand-to-forearm.  “And you yet stand.  Absent wound?”

Chin tilted up, I boasted, “Sir, you insult the competence of my instructor in giving such a thought voice.”

Shaking his head, Rabanus observed, “There’s no need to lick my ass, little man.  You’ve few rivals among my pupils to contend with.”

“You confuse me with another,” I quipped.  “One with penchant for cleaning ass with tongue.  But I have heard tell that men of your years often succumb to confusion.”

Rabanus angled the spear my way threateningly.  “Before sunset, I will see you on the sands and we shall see whose senses survive encounter intact.”

I looked forward to it.

“In the meantime, come meet our brothers from Pompeii.  A few of the dim fucks can actually fight… and the gladiators show promise as well.”

Agron snorted and I bit back a laugh.  Duro let out a guffaw loud enough for the both of us.  Apparently, the ludus slaves were a competent lot.  Perhaps the gladiators were hindered by cumbersome ego.  In the coming days, we would surely see that to proper measure.

For the moment, I congratulated my brothers: Rabanus, Ortius, Fulco, Acer, and Vitus had completed assigned quest with rousing success.  They had liberated able-bodied men and women sympathetic to our cause and thirsting for Roman blood, and then they had made overland journey undetected by either patrols or brigands to rally with Spartacus and launch attack upon unsuspecting army from rear as those of us upon mountain’s summit had roared down its slopes.

Roman defeat was inevitable against two synchronized fronts of furious, trained killers in dead of night.

Still, despite such dark and deadly work, we stood more than mindless animals.  Spartacus spoke reminder of it.  Pausing in the center of camp, he called out to us: “Brothers!  Sisters!  The enemy is fallen and we are free!”

Yes, so we were.

As the archers and children emerged from the trees, I opened my arms to any of my charges who sought fatherly embrace and kiss.  All thirty-seven did.  As well as more than half of the older ones.  With each and every one of my Syrians accounted for, I repeated the words Adal had taught me, reminding them that no matter what they had seen me do or what their own hands had done, I was still their Nasir and my regard for them was unchanged.

With so many strangers in our midst, I desired to keep the children near, but there was too much to be done -- ditches to be dug and bodies buried -- and I would not force them to bear witness to gory drudgery.  Besides, more than a hundred newcomers would surely mean additional demonstration to establish the mantle of protection I extended to my people.  But not today.  Tomorrow -- I would accept and issue challenge to anyone with straying hands _****tomorrow.****_

In attempt to see the remainder of the day spent in relative peace, I sent the children back up to mountain’s summit with the assistance of trusted volunteers to fetch the few supplies we had left behind guarded by Simon and Libo and Euclid.

Once they had left the meadow, I called for Adal to bring his charge forward through the crowd of unwashed, battered, and bloodied bodies.

“I would make introductions,” I offered, my tone vibrating with rage, and the praetor’s doom was sealed when I told: “Spartacus, here stands the man who suggested one of us might provide entertainment for Glaber’s guests the night before Oenomaus, Pyrrhus, and I were to be executed in the arena.”

The Thracian’s jaw clenched.  His arms, already crossed, tensed.  Fingers curled into claws.  Eyes blazed.  “Then let him enjoy the same fate as our brother Varro.”

So be it.

“Today, we host celebration,” Spartacus proclaimed.  “Let us honor our fallen brothers who have waited too long to be paid proper respect for their sacrifice.  And we shall offer **_**entertainment** ** _\--”_**_**   He gestured toward the praetor.  “--to see vengeance done.”

I lingered at Agron’s side for a moment, clutching his arm tightly in silence.  I had not forgotten his desires.  I had not forgotten my own.  But this was not the time.

We found Lucius’ remains upon the dung heap.  We cut down Liscus, Sophus, Tychos, and Plenus.  We lowered Medicus from cross and took care with prying iron nails from rotting flesh.  I worked with Naevia and Agron and Duro to shroud his form and place his body atop one of the many pyres that both Gauls and Germans had built, sparing no effort in gathering fuel.

The attention of the gods themselves would be ensnared by these monuments to our dead.

Roman camp was raided for food and drink.  Grain, cured pork, and dried vegetables were plentiful.  Posca, rather than wine, was discovered among the soldiers’ rations and I was relieved.  As sorrowful as I was to be unable to lift cup in memory of those lost, no one held desire for lowered inhibitions among so many deadly men and women strung together with still tentative truce.  Besides, the absence of wine presented no deterrent for bidding our comrades and friends loving farewell.

And much amusement was gained when the Gauls and Germans refused to choke the vinegar-herb-and-water concoction down.

Duro grimaced at the taste and coughed out: “No wonder the fucks are so easy to kill with this swine piss in their veins!”

We broke our fast before Euclid’s arrival and paid the price for it as he banged through the grimy pots and shouted and snarled at the whole of camp.  Libo offered assistance and soothing presence; his equine charges would wait a little longer yet.

Spartacus claimed the praetor’s own steed as well as the fasces, the symbol of Rome’s power and might, parading both through the camp before the unlit pyres were set ablaze.  The fasces was cast into the meal fire to smolder among the coals and dollops of spilled gruel.  The only thing more insulting would have been to spill Roman blood upon it beforehand.

But we had only one Roman remaining among us and his role in the evening’s events had been decided.

Again, I ensured the children were absent.  All bedded down in temple cellar upon comfortable cots provided by the vanquished army.  Santos and Libo and several others accepted the promise of peaceful slumber among my young charges rather than behold the execution.  Oruros was clearly disappointed that I would not join them.

“Not tonight,” I said.  And as tomorrow was still uncertain, I could make no vow regarding that, either, but my presence this night was required among my branded brothers.

This night, this time, I would watch.

I would watch the fucking Roman praetor forced to wooden beam that had held Medicus’ helpless body.  I would watch hands and feet impaled with nails only just pulled from my friend’s abused flesh.

The man who had relished every act of torment Varro had been made to endure, the man who had mediated and negotiated for the death of one _****criminal****_  to appease a Roman boy’s slighted ego, the man who had gleefully inflicted pain upon my friend and brother with his own hand -- I would watch as that man was nailed and hung from cross.

As the hammers came down, Adal turned away to gulp cleansing breaths of air.

When the praetor’s shrill cries broke and snapped along with the bones of his hands, Saxa forcibly bit back grimace of disgust and Lugo’s jaw clenched though his gaze remained hard as stone.

So many here had never seen a living, screaming, pleading man so grossly displayed or his agony so blatantly prolonged.

I almost regretted tearing the cloak of ignorance from them, but they must see.  Every man and woman here, whether they had most recently come from Neapolis, Pompeii, Capua or some villa in between… all should know the price of failure.  If our ranks scattered or became poisoned with dissent, this was the fate Rome would give us.

When the man finally passed out, I decisively turned my thoughts toward those who had been lost.  I did not know many of them well, but I attended each pyre to listen to what tales were told of the fallen’s prowess and skill and true heart.

Spartacus and Mira, having undertaken the task of preparing his body for journey to the afterlife, lingered at Lucius’.  I joined them for a time.  Spoke of our first meeting.  Amazingly, Agron and Duro seemed pleased to share preference for crude insults with the man.  Perhaps, when we reunited in the afterlife, we might all lift cups together.

Medicus’ pyre I saved for last.  Agron and Duro stood with me for a time, breaking words on the man and offering gratitude.  My tongue lay heavy and thick in my mouth and after lengthy silence, Agron and Duro exchanged a look.  Duro patted my shoulder.  Agron rubbed the back of my neck.  They rejoined the crowds gathered around scattered campfires, providing me with solitude.

These Germans.  My remarkable brothers.  I did not know what would have become of me absent their generosity.

I stood, stared into the flames, and embraced memory.

I was yet unsure of what to say, my heart too bruised to allow for clear thought, but I made attempt: “Though you did your best to deny it, I saw your heart.  As did Simon.  As did all the men whose lives you saved.”  He had even died endeavoring to ensure the continued survival of another.  “Fucking Medicus,” I accused with a shake of my head, and then sought out my Germans.

Duro was wildly gesticulating through an account of our assault from the mountain pass to an entertained audience of unfamiliar faces -- the freed men and women of Pompeii’s ludus.  It was a simple matter to gain Agron’s attention with a tap upon his shoulder and leave our brother with Lugo and Totus to spin tales of glory.

Our first stop was the temple bath.  The room had somehow been left undisturbed by the battle, though the water had grown cold.  I wondered at the state of our old room, but made no suggestion to reclaim it or even lay eyes upon it.  Romans had marked this temple their territory.  That in and of itself was violation enough.

We washed quickly, ate evening meal, and then found an unoccupied tent.  A cot.  The blankets we kicked away, content to use the coat and cloak Zaria had crafted for us and the warmth of our own skin.  Exhaustion claimed us.

Desire woke us.

The need from the day before as our gazes had met in the wake of battle amid gore and destruction raced like fire through my veins and hooked hard deep in my belly.  I opened mouth over the flesh below my lips and Agron’s arm’s flexed, his spine arching himself closer as I attended to scar and nipple and smattering of freckles gained from training beneath unforgiving sun.

His leg shifted, foot hooking behind my knee and pulling us closer.  “I await fulfillment of promise,” he whispered into my ear, nosing through the loose strands of hair.

“Hm.  Oil?”

Stretching an arm over the edge of the cot, he produced a small vessel of it and I shook my head in wonder.  Did the same emotion overcome him when he was moved to speechless awe?  It must be so.

I sat up and he made ample room for me between his thighs, unashamed to bare himself for my gaze, my hands.  This man, he was my heart.  I would pulse with him again, connect our flesh and renew the heartbeat between us.

I did.  First with oiled fingers and then with oiled cock, we surged against each other, a hand upon his cock and the other massaging balls as his legs tightened around my torso, hitching himself further into my lap and driving me deeper into his heat.

Ah… fuck.

His completion swiftly overcame him.  My back bowed and held tilted back as I felt him tighten-ripple-tug around me, but I fought the tingling in the base of my spine, gently pushing him through his pleasure, permitted him a pause to catch his breath, then I reached for the oil and began again.

His groan could surely be heard by everyone in the camp, but I could not summon even a dram of shame for it.  I loved him slowly as he gasped helplessly and moaned through gritted teeth and his cock twitched, hesitant at first but gaining girth with every teasing brush of my seed-slicked fingers over the tip.  He jerked bodily at every fleeting contact, his hands grasping the edge of the cot tight enough to put indentations in the wooden frame, and his ankles locked behind my waist.  I kissed, licked, exhaled, and bit against his thighs.

And then, when his neck corded and lashes lowered and lips trembled, I leaned in, levering forward, lifting his knees to my shoulders and shifting his weight onto upper back and shoulders.  Freed myself to rub him quick-deep-perfect with short, rapid thrusts.

“Fuck!” he pleaded and I complied until sweat misted my skin and his mouth went slack and a soft scream squeezed out of his throat, cracking and breaking and folding into a needy mewl as his cock released dribbles of seed upon his scrunched belly.

And then he had me wild.  I slammed forward in search of my own release and his eyes went wide, unseeing, breath caught somewhere at back of tongue, small grunts tumbling out.

I tilted cheek against his knee and cast gaze upon his form, supine with pleasure, lax with trust.  This man who welcomed me absent conditions or restrictions.  Ah fuck.

My lips moved and I gasped out the words I had first learned in the tongue from east of the Rhine.  His palm cupped my jaw, thumb smoothing over my cheek as the rush of heat and light overtook me and I lost myself in him, poured all that I was into him.

I nuzzled his palm, gasping morning-stale breaths against his calluses and scars, and grabbed for his wrist to hold him there.  “My lover.  My heart.”

“As you are mine,” he agreed, and all I could do was shake my head on a marveling smile.

Following midday meal, Agron, Duro and I assembled with Spartacus in the temple.  The praetor had demanded every comfort here.  Even the soot and pitch had been scrubbed from the walls and floors.  The roof repaired.  Upon wide well-crafted desk which had no doubt been hauled all the way from Rome, we cast gaze upon maps, shoulder to shoulder with Mira, Naevia, Crixus, Gannicus, and Oenomaus.

“And now,” Spartacus told us all, “I would become an army.”

Gannicus huffed a chuckle.  “As Gauls so readily call Germans brothers, so too shall gladiators of Capua embrace those of Pompeii!”

Mira proposed, “Let us swell ranks with men and women who may bridge the gap.”

“You speak of liberating additional house slaves of Rome,” Agron tiredly observed.

“Do we not have skilled men and women in sufficient numbers to train them?”  Spartacus glanced toward Oenomaus, who sighed and tilted head in reluctant agreement.

I made careful study of the topmost map -- an illustration of Campania -- and pointed to one feature upon it.

Duro bent close and squinted at it.  “The fuck is this?  Not a city by its markings.”

“It is the mines,” I explained and with those words, I gained the attention of all.

“You once named it the bowels of Tartarus,” Agron reminded me.  “What manner of able-bodied men and women could be found in such a place?”

“Very few,” I allowed, “but this stands the source of fear to all slaves of Rome.  Remove threat, and hands abandon task -- feet readily cross threshold -- to join our cause.”

Crixus warned: “The able-bodied, the young, the old -- it is not us who selects recruits, but the recruits who choose us.”

“More who cannot yet fight,” Duro grumbled.

“Or may never fight,” Oenomaus added.

“True,” I allowed, “but every man or woman who defies Roman master -- every pair of hands no longer holding up the roof of Roman domus -- weakens the entire republic.”

Again, Crixus spoke criticism: “The burning of the arena led too few to our cause.”

“The arena was a call to gladiators,” Oenomaus argued.  “Acer tells they heard of its destruction in Pompeii and thereafter spoke eagerly of rebellion.”

Gannicus found wry humor in this.  “And these men once stood our rivals!”

Spartacus summarized: “When opportunity arises, more will seize freedom and whether additional gladiators join our army or fight apart, they do further overall resistance against Rome.”

Naevia shifted, moving away from Crixus to pose equal distance between the Gaul and Mira.  “Gladiators are few in number in comparison to the slaves who work the fields and those who serve Roman domus.  Rome cannot replace them all before roof caves in.”

Spartacus nodded.  “Point well made.  We will liberate the mines and see all within free of bondage.”

And thereby inspire others capable of casting off collar to make it so with their own two hands.  Fuck the gods… and fuck the Romans.

“I visited the mines once.”

Only when Duro stiffened and Agron exhaled noisily, crossing his arms, did I realize that I had been the one to speak those words.

Spartacus was watching me carefully, but I took pause.  I straightened and looked to my brother Duro and my lover Agron, tilting brow in silent inquiry.

Duro rolled his eyes.  “Fuck.  Of course we will.”

My lover’s lips quirked and he nodded once.

Grinning, I turned back to Spartacus and made offer: “Perhaps we may be of some aid.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mines of Lucania were probably located in the province of Lucania and NOT in Campania, but work with me here, m’kay?
> 
> Also, I don’t think there was an uprising at the Pompeii ludus during the Third Serville War. (But there should have been GDI!)
> 
> There’s a story of Spartacus claiming Varinius’ horse and the “fasces” (a staff comprised of sticks bundled around an ax -- this was a symbol of Rome’s power) in battle and displaying them as trophies. Spartacus may have crucified Roman soldiers (but not Varinius, who actually survived and lived on). I am in no way promising or suggesting historical accuracy, but I’m keen to mix in other Spartacus mythos into this series.
> 
> Posca, according to the Internet Overlords, is watered down vinegar with herbs added to make it “palatable.” Or, substitute the vinegar with wine. Anyway, it sounds pretty bad, but I imagine it would be slightly safer to drink than unboiled water; vinegar and wine have both been used to clean wounds (not “clean” to modern medical standards, but better than nothing in many cases).
> 
> As for what Germans and Gauls usually drank, I DO NOT KNOW but I imagine it was some type of ale or beer made from local grain (barely and/or millet). Wine probably would have been available; Raetia (an area in the Alps) was known for wine at this time. I haven’t found any indication that tribes east of the Rhine kept vineyards, though, so I’m thinking wine would have been difficult to come by in large quantities. I suppose mead (or some alcoholic beverage made from honey) could have been popular… or maybe some kind of apple wine or cider? I think it would depend a lot on whatever was seasonally available.
> 
> Finally, we see the WHOLE PLAN that Nasir and Spartacus come up with in Vesuvius: Chapter 2:  
> Step 1 / Chapter 3: Gather intel in Neapolis (find out when ships carrying fighters captured in foreign wars will dock, map out the city streets, learn the wharf and harbor layout)  
> Step 2 / Chapters 5-7: Prep the temple and mountain trail for evacuation, dig a tunnel that leads out of the cellar toward the path and repair the trail itself, dig caches for supplies  
> BONUS STEP 3 (a.k.a. Scheme 2) / Chapters 4-7: See if the Pompeii ludus slaves will cooperate and convince the gladiators to rise up  
> Step 4 / Chapter 8: Liberate some dudes (and also kill some Roman patrols and take their weapons during the same trip to Neapolis)  
> Step 5 / Chapter 9: Evaluate the warriors (and hopefully gain some allies)  
> Step 6 / Chapters 9-10: Head back to Neapolis to liberate more dudes  
> Step 7 / Chapters 9-10: By now a lot more Roman soldiers have probably been sent to Neapolis to guard the harbor (which may have been an actual naval base at the time), so while one group frees the slaves from the ships, another group draws the Roman soldiers away, kills them, and steals their weapons  
> BONUS STEP 8 / Chapters 10-11: A valuable hostage (Marcus) provides the opportunity to make Glaber think the rebels need weapons and lure Glaber within range of Spartacus’ sword/spear/fists  
> Step 9 / Chapters 12-13: Stock the caches at the top of Vesuvius with water and supplies for shelter  
> Step 10 / Chapters 12-13: Prepare “go-bags” of food, water skins, and bundles of weapons for people to grab as they evacuate (if evacuation is necessary)  
> Step 11 / Chapters 8-13: Wait for more escaped slaves (including gladiators) to join them  
> Step 12 / Chapter 14 (mentioned): If a Roman army shows up before the Pompeii gladiators arrive, send a group of guys to Pompeii to free those fighters  
> Step 13 / Chapter 14 (mentioned): Engage the Romans while the rebels have the high ground AND the Romans underestimate their numbers  
> Step 14 / Chapter 14 (mentioned): Draw the Romans out of formation and in toward the temple to fight man-to-man  
> Step 15 / Chapter 14 (mentioned): If the initial battle is lost, retreat to the top of Vesuvius, burn the temple to halt pursuit  
> Step 16 / Chapter 14: Watch for the signal (a Roman cloak tied in a visible and previously-chosen location) from the guys who went and got the Pompeii gladiators  
> Step 17 / Chapter 14: Once the cloak is spotted (which means backup has arrived), make ropes from vines  
> Step 18 / Chapter 14: Under cover of darkness, volunteers repel down the mountain to assist with destroying heavy artillery (i.e. catapults)  
> Step 19 / Chapter 15: The main rebel force moves down the mountain -- archers (in front) take out the Roman guards, and warriors (at rear) carry torches to signal Spartacus that they’re on the move  
> Step 20 / Chapter 15: Make guerrilla warfare on the sleeping Roman army  
> NOTE: Several of these steps were not mentioned until after the fact.
> 
> Whew! OK, aren’t you glad I wrote this up in 15 chapters instead of giving you a boring mission briefing?


End file.
